I can't stop wondering about people's motives.
Why they left the company. Why they've kept up that hobby for eight years now. I'm drawn less to the reason they tell me than to something a little deeper inside. Something that had been piling up inside them long before it turned into words or action. Desire, wounds, longing—the richest part—I go looking, on my own.
The deeper I dig, the farther I drift from what they said at first. They often don't understand it themselves either. From there on, it's mostly guesswork. And still I pick up at the edges of their words, fill the gaps between lines with meaning, and—sometimes layering fantasy on top—wear a knowing look as if to say, "It must be something like this."
When it comes to myself, I suddenly understand nothing. Small triggers piled up, and before I knew it I was here. Maybe that's all it was. It seems I'm trying to cobble together a grand reason anyway.
Maybe I'm looking for a story where I could be the protagonist, driven hard by something.