Small talk is a mission. I want to
tell him how most of my money gets spend on travelling and food and that my
idea of therapy is walking around in a stationery shop, because the silent
presence of books and moleskin journals and paintbrushes has the power to
comfort me after a long and miserable day. I want to tell how every once in a
while, I love to have long phone calls and that effort means everything to me
and that I suck at goodbyes, that’s why
it means the world to me when someone says the first hello.
I
want late night conversations and I want to tell them I’m an old school
romantic with a battered heart and the tendency to simply start crying without
warning, something because you are sad but most times because I am unable to
contain the flooding of emotion that fills me every time I am happy, angry or
afraid. I want to tell them all this. I want to be honest and open and
vulnerable hold nothing back. I want to talk about all the things I managed to
survive and all the love I’m capable of. I want all that, but I’m not there
yet. Before all that, comes the small talk. But
how do I tell someone I wasn’t built for small talk?
