Here is a tragic flaw: I quit people. Jobs, books, hobbies--what do these things matter? I am the real villain. I am soaking in a bucket of undiluted guilt. I am a people-quitter.
Oh, the collection of cast-offs isn't a massive one. I could name each one, but they would all fit the same description. I quit people who threaten me in their instability. Who frighten me with their grasping need. Who clutch at me on their way down. Who avert their eyes because they haven't told the whole truth: from fragments to chunks, from pebbles to boulders, something big is missing.
And, I argue, I am not the one who can find the missing pieces. I am not a solver of riddles. I balk at reading between the lines. I put together the borders, but someone else must fill in the middle.
Because I quit.