Showing you a solved Rubik's Cube while sitting in a jail cell
Castaway: I hate people who ask for help. Because why are you asking me for directions to the bathroom when all you need to do is take one second to look around and find it for yourself?
Octopus: Because it’s faster?
Castaway: Yeah, but do it yourself. It’s not that hard.
Octopus: But it’s not bad to ask for help.
Castaway: Well, I wouldn’t. Not unless I had absolutely no other options left.
Octopus: I know. I think it’s because you care too much about being a burden.
Castaway: Well, yeah. I don’t want to waste anyone’s time if I’m not actually in need of help. But then, when I do ask people for assistance, they say, “Of course,” and then just don’t do anything. So what is the fucking point? I would rather figure out my problems myself.
Octopus: And when people don’t follow through, what does that feel like?
Castaway: I feel like I’m in the middle of the ocean with no sail, no wind, and no paddle. The sun is ruthless, burning me alive, while all I can do is take it.
Octopus: And when you reach out for help…
Castaway: Trying to figure shit out for myself is my way of trying to move the driftwood I’m on, jumping and stomping on it to make small waves. Asking for help that does not come feels like the dead ocean around me is expanding and expanding and expanding, reminding me all the more that I am alone. So, Octopus, could you stop asking me these questions? I’m getting really irritated. I want to have surface-level conversations.
Octopus: Because talking about it makes it feel real?
Castaway: BECAUSE I DON’T WANT TO REMEMBER WHERE I AM. The birds that fly overhead, the fish that swim beneath me, and the books I’ve brought with me all remind me that my time has not come and that this, too, shall pass. So I’m trying to keep myself busy. But if you remind me, I don’t know how much longer I can take this.
