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Our heads are the most terrible place, you know.
And I’m glad that he cannot possibly exist there, not actually. If I try to fit him in my boxes, place him in my categories, I’ve removed every bit of his individuality.
Individuality is what makes us who we are. So if I remove the thing that makes him who he is, I’ve removed him entirely.
So it’s a paradox, you see.
The boy out there in the world cannot possibly exist in my head
yet I spend all my day thinking of him.
I’m thinking, rather, of the objectivity of who he is.
I like the idea of the object-boy — it’s simple, it makes sense.
The object-boy fits in all the right boxes, he slides right into my assumptions and conclusions.
He never has a care, he is perfect and is spotless and is happy and is robotic.
He is not real.
be real. And I’m so very happy, because perfect people tend to be a bore.
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