Yep, that's more or less my standard way to carry on a conversation. I never know what else to do, since either the other person is most likely talking to me only because they have to, and the last thing they need while they stoically put up with my company is to listen to my ignorant ramblings, or they are the one in power and I genuinely want to talk to them as little as possible, because they usually take advantage of anything I reveal to take control of more and more areas of my life, and sometimes to bully me outright.
But just because it's my standard behavior doesn't mean I do it well, or as thoroughly as I'd like to. I profoundly envy people---mostly women---who can afford to say they have no time for something, or to use their phones or books as barriers to social interaction, or even to indulge often in gestures like scanning the horizon. My parents and other authority figures had a comprehensive list of that kind of behaviors, and they took offence when I did them, in addition to considering them part of the mental illness I so obviously had to have. Some were also part of the list of well-known vices of contemporary social life, on par with smoking, drinking, going out and showering daily---yes, the last one was a vice, too.
I particularly remember when a school psychologist threatened, in a joking-but-perhaps-not-really-joking tone, to take away my watch, because I nervously looked at it a few times during an interview, in my father's presence, and with his wholehearted sympathy. It's hard for me to bring myself to practise the forbidden behaviors, no matter how much I want to. Besides, to some extent, should indeed keep obeying, because I'm not really independent and can find myself at any time begging for them to let me in their home again while I look for a job, with little hope to get one which doesn't rely on my diagnosis as mentally defective, thus perpetuating my stigma.
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The red lake has been forgotten. A dust devil stuns you long enough to shroud forever those last shards of wisdom. The breeze rocking this forlorn wasteland whispers in your ears, “Não resta mais que uma sombra”.