And words are futile devices

"Um...excuse me, but is something the matter?"

Her voice sounded intelligent enough.  She was probably a student, just leaving the library after a long night of studying.  Spring term often causes even those with relatively easy courses to spend until eleven o'clock at night in the library.  Doing a four month course in two months' time can do that to a person.

"Why do you ask?" he replied.

"You're lying on a concrete wall at eleven-thirty at night."

"I've seen people lying around here before."

"...in the daytime, maybe.  Never this late."

He paused for a second.  "Well, I suppose you're right."

She studied him before replying.  He was in his early or mid twenties, and fairly well dressed, so he probably wasn't homeless.  Then again, he wasn't really sleeping on the wall; he was just lying there with his eyes open in his shorts, a button-up shirt, and sandals, at eleven-thirty on Saturday night.  

"So you understand, then, why I'm asking if something is the matter."

"I suppose so."

"...and?"

"Have you ever had the feeling that you're different than everyone else?"

"Well, obviously" she replied.  "Everyone's different."

"No, I'm not talking about normal, 'you listen to Mariah Carey and I listen to Sufjan Stevens' kind of different, I'm talking about really, completely different than everyone around you."  He spoke as if he were having a sort of revelation on the spot--as if nothing that he was saying had ever occurred to him before that moment.  "Like, as if your brain works differently in the way that it comes to conclusions, and your priorities are completely different than everyone else's."

She paused before replying "Is that why you're lying on a concrete wall under a tree at eleven-thirty at night?  Because you're different?"

"I suppose that's one reason," he finally admitted, "and I think that's the root problem.  But probably not the biggest problem I'm facing right now."

"Why's that?"

"Well, I don't necessarily think there's anything wrong with being different.  I mean, Da Vinci was probably different.  Not that I think I'm him.  Sometimes it can create problems, though."

"I meant for you to tell me what this supposed 'biggest problem' you're facing right now is."

"At this exact moment?" he inquired.

"At this exact moment" she replied.

"At this exact moment, my biggest problem is the fact that I'm trying to have an existential crisis, and there's this random girl talking to me."

"I'm sorry, I can leave, if you want."

"No, no.  I think it's better to talk about it than to lay here, thinking about it."

"Okay, so then talk."  She sat down about a foot away from his head, there on the wall.

"Well, for starters, I came to the realization today that I've never had a deep, meaningful relationship with anyone.  Ever."  He spoke in a fairly monotone voice, but somehow it seemed as though he was just barely maintaining his grip on the present.  As if just thinking about the subject caused him inexpressible horror.  She saw the way he lay across the concrete, with as much of his body touching it as possible, and it seemed that he was rooted to the earth in such a way to compensate for his mind's desire to flee.

"What do you mean by 'deep, meaningful relationship'?"

"I mean...well, something that matters.  It's like I have all of these friends, right? And I talk with all of them, and I hang out with some of them, but at the end of the day, I can't really depend on any one of them.  They'd like me to think that I can, but I really can't, and when I need them they all seem to disappear.  It's like...I don't know, like everything is plastic.  Fake.  The world is a set of social rules that I have to follow in order to be normal, and because of this I can't have a real, deep, meaningful relationship with anyone.  Because it's not normal. At least, not on the level I'm thinking of, it isn't."

"Well, can't those relationships be a gateway to what you really want?"

"You'd think so.  I did.  But I must always end up bending or breaking one of those social rules.  Or maybe I'm completely and unforgivably disobeying one that I don't even know about.  And because of that, these fake friendships tend to disintegrate, quickly.  Maybe 'plastic' wasn't a good word to use to describe it.  Plastic takes too long to disintegrate.  It's like they're made of paper, and the first time it rains everything gets soggy and unreadable, then just breaks apart, because there's no real substance to it."

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Author's Note:  I got to this point, and ran out of ideas.  So we're going to call this a work in progress for now.  I just can't come up with a good reaction from the female character to drive the conversation forward.  There'll be a part 2 later.