Sometimes you will try to lift up the corner of your skin like a bed sheet and show someone what’s underneath – your knots, your hurt, your histories – and they will dismiss it. I try so hard not to expect things from people, but they end up disappointing me anyway, and I end up disappointing me, too. And I spent last night in the city, our faces cold against the autumn wind, the full moon above us like an open mouth. We talked about our fears and insecurities, our hopes and expectations, and the instability of it all. The instability of our minds, our emotions, our future – how fragile everything is, and how easily we are able to tip over the edge, our insides sloshing out like cold milk.
I have difficulties with small talk because I’d rather learn about what keeps you from sleeping, and what gets you through the day. You see, I want to memorize all your shades of shame, of hurt, of bitterness. Tell me what keeps you from saying what you want to say. Give me the stories of your childhood, your family, your friends. Give me your light, yes, but hand it to me with your darkness.
The only thing I have ever truly found meaning in is people. They’re the only things I believe in, have faith in, and find peace in. Relationships with other human beings are the only things that hold profound significance for me. Yet there is none of that. Here and now, there is none of that. There is only an emptiness that stretches, and stretches, and stretches… 
Beatriz Esmer 