Sometimes I wonder why you love me. I used to think it was my own selfishness begging the question forward. But today I wonder because when I get on a roll (and I do, often) I can start seeing the impatience develop in the corners of your eye. I don't know if it's always been, or if just now it's become obvious to me, but I can see it beginning to irritate you. All my highfalutin recitations of my latest reading. All of my internal cross-examination. All of the stones I turn over and over in my hand - at you. It's getting a bit much.
But you see I'm just too chock-full of existence and you are the only vessel to pour it into. I crave novelty and I can see that you, instead, crave peace. You've watched the world worry over itself for long enough and you want to rest. I never let you rest.
So then comes the questions again, why is it you love me? I am so restless and so curious and so mean.