because

a non robot normal feeling productive living life human being

in circling conversations 

and the small talk abounded

in the small talk in the whatevers where you don't care about what I say and I don't care about what you say, really.

and then the climax of the theatrical goodbye and the deep embrace and the exhalation of relief. of climbing back into cluttered van where little voices beg for more audio Harry Potter and there's breath there and there's life there and there is freedom there. there in the just being of being. in the place of knowing the Others are gone and the destitute and the sarcasm and the silly and immature and the life returns where there are no tears and there is no pressure to conform to the norms and there is no pressure to be a smarty talky and there is no pressure to protect from the other imperfect parenting and the perfect small talk, so skilled and slick and smooth as silk and the answers and the ability to worm into the essays of the why i do what i do.

i do 

i do too

i say little for the pleasure of seeing the awkward. no, for the solace in rising above. of not being a slick small talker, just an observer and judge and audience. just a one to sit and sweat and breathe and wait impatiently for the waiting to be over and to run to the solace of the cluttered van. our cluttered van. that not loved perfectly but still running van. 

the freedom to bask in my freedoms, please. 

the freedom to love what is lovely about me, please.

the freedom to just be in the being, please.