How does one forget unsolved mysteries? How does one numb the curiosity that blooms and blossoms, and becomes addiction, when it's as clear as daylight that to satisfy it, it needs the time and the intimacy one will never have? You shared yourself from what seemed to be a broken telephone box, though you never displayed yourself as they wanted you to, and they called you a tabula rasa. They thought they overestimated you. They thought they invented you. They couldn't work out the bits that leaked through your shell, that didn't fit neither their idea of a blank canvas, nor even the image they thought they projected onto you. So they probed you, and probed, but you remained silent. Frustration made them call you dull, but in reality they just couldn't get hold of the prism that would reveal the rainbow of your white light. You're unpredictable to them, you fob them off with superficialities, but I haven't yet figured out why. You're inexplicable, as long, at least, as you don't want to be explained. And it's impossible to say if it's wisdom or fear that makes you hide yourself. That makes you hide your doe eyes. It seems as if you knew that the key to your inner world lies somewhere at the bottom of these doe eyes, as if you carefully tried to conceal any trace that might lead to them. Your sunglasses are the walls of your castle, aren't they.
It's this riddle that fascinates me, the prospect of something unique, wonderful, exciting, overwhelming. I never understood why, but people confide in me. They share their secrets, wishes and anxieties with me when they barely know me, when I don't even really care. I wonder if you would confide in me. If I am making a start, understanding that I don't understand. If I myself am secret enough to lift yours. If I could try my luck with you and watch these doe eyes in silence, to finally see a distant shine, and then follow the light.
