To face, lip, and mind-readers, he is a misanthrope. There is not enough time nor attention-span to assert otherwise, in the few short seconds of interaction one is allotted in #smalltalkville. A quick hey how are you doing is followed by an equally brusque good, and you? And in those few short seconds there is only a brief window to judge a person: by the expression worn on their face, or by the tone and inflection that shape the few choice words that escape their lips. From these clues, his mind is deciphered and read – confirming what was suspected all along – a hatred for human interaction, nay a cold indifference, even.
Online, these clues are stripped away. Tucked safely behind the computer screen, his fingers type, and the words that are drawn are devoid of tone and inflection. There is no face to turn to for additional clues. It is where he likes to hide.
He is a bundle of impulsive passions and debilitating self-awareness. The two circle around, chasing each other’s tails, forming an inertia that spins around aimlessly, violently deflecting things that bear too close to its core.
Welcome, to Paranoia.
Knowing this, the prudent thing is to not let anyone come close. A life of solitude is the only way to protect the innocent and the fragile from this incendiary fire, this thing that aims to engulf all that it comes across. This paranoia can be squashed, held down for a gorgeous few minutes, but when it bursts through the seal, it is an ugly mess. I advise you, the reader, to stand at least an arm’s length away from it, lest you be scathed by its alienating sparks.