Inspired by Albert Camus' L'Etranger, but more truth than fiction;
My name is Meursault.
I’m unhappy, and happy.
I’m not satisfied. I have everything I need.
On Thursday, I thought about jumping off a balcony.
I thought it would be soothing, and liberating, sailing through the air.
I almost did it.
Then I thought about the ground. Splat. That wouldn’t be good. That was the only reason I didn’t.
I talked to a lot of people today. I haven’t talked to anyone in a while.
Everyone is really clever. I don’t think anyone will understand.
I think I might explode, from everything.
Or implode, from the gnawing emptiness.
It’s strange. It’s normal.
There really isn’t any difference.
I want to cry, all the time. But I don’t.
People would look at me strangely. That wouldn’t be good.
It’s selfish really. What I think. Is it?
Maybe it’s not. Maybe it is.
Talking isn’t that easy.
Talking is only easy when you’re not really saying anything. I do that a lot.
My name isn’t Meursault.