I don’t know what "experience" actually is, but

I don’t know what "experience" actually is, but I like it sometimes. I feel alone, but I see everyone around me. There’s a chance to be friends. I’ve tried. I’ve had wonderful moments. That’s what I like. I don’t like what happens after. I always come back to this starting square—just me, just my awareness, just my inescapable point of view. Somebody has to be me. I guess it might as well be me.

Desire and loneliness are the words that describe me and rule me now. One day, I’ll die, and I won’t have to suffer the disappointments anymore. Unfortunately, I won’t know it at the time. While I am alive and able to know anything, I must apparently know pain. That seems to be the only fixed star in the sky they call life. They praise life for its potential, for its opportunity, but I keep finding regular old dirt.