I thought about how branches far from one another could still intersect in my line of vision,
like how the stars of Cassiopeia were far from one another, but somehow near to me.
“I wish I understood it,” she said. “It’s okay,” I said. “Nobody gets anybody else, not really.
We’re all stuck inside ourselves.” “You just, like, hate yourself? You hate being yourself?”
“There’s no self to hate. It’s like, when I look into myself, there’s no actual me—just a bunch of thoughts and behaviors and circumstances.
And a lot of them just don’t feel like they’re mine. They’re not things I want to think or do or whatever.
And when I look for the, like, Real Me, I never find it. It’s like those nesting dolls, you know?
The ones that are hollow, and then when you open them up, there’s a smaller doll inside,
and you keep opening hollow dolls until eventually you get to the smallest one, and it’s solid all the way through.
But with me, I don’t think there is one that’s solid. They just keep getting smaller.”
“That reminds me of a story my mom tells,” Daisy said. “What story?”
I could hear her teeth chattering when she talked but neither of us wanted to stop looking up at the latticed sky.
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