She wasn't so much tired of being, as she was tired of being *here.* Not so tired, really, of raising an OH SHIT above the noise as of that oh shit being, like, 3 point helvetica, resonating maybe three feet. An important three feet to her, but still, three feet, not twenty three.
As more people come, and as more people have been here a longer time, she sees something she didn't expect: what they want isn't what they said.
They don't want truth and rough edges; what is important to them isn't what they tell you is important. In seeing real honesty for the first time, she suddently sees how the superficial shines that much more brilliantly.
It makes her squint. Sometimes cry.
It's not at all what she expected.
It's not why she came.
She has a few questions, but so far hasn't found any answers.
Her question today is: Who the fuck are you?
Your monologues are disingenuous, and I am disengaging. You can't hear my song anymore. Not without someone telling you that you should be listening.
You've forgotten how to be real.
Or maybe you never knew.
