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“He’s disabled!”, is the first thing you say of yourself when you sit down with me, your nostrils flared like the ones of a horse after a fast run. I’m just wondering if you’re going to neigh, but you skip it and verbally stay in human language, “So stupid, that can’t be true.” I pretend I know what about or even about who is talking about. At some point it will crystallize out. Of course, I could just ask – but that’s more exciting.

“Disabled in what way?” I therefore ask carefully.
“How do you mean, in what way?”, you reply, while I can already note a slight confusion on your part.
“Well, mentally or physically?” I then specify my question.
“You can sometimes ask very stupid questions! He’s not really handicapped, that’s what they say when someone behaves like that, in this case like a mentally handicapped person,” you burst out, although I am convinced that you are trying to burst my collar which can’t be done because I don’t wear one at the prevailing temperatures. But you would not succeed even with a worn one, because I am always the calm myself.
“And you know how mentally handicapped people are like that, so crazy?” I ask, “How many do you even know?”
“Well, if you ask that, enough. You see a few idiots every day,” you continue unflinchingly complaining and, above all, accusing, “But you have to make it complicated again, when you know exactly what I mean. Don’t pretend to be so ignorant.”
“I urge clarification, nothing more. All I want is for you to say what you really mean, because yes, I can think a lot, but while we’re talking, you can call things by their names,” I try to explain.
“No, I know what you want, you just want to make things unnecessarily complicated so that you can show how smart you are again, but I have absolutely no desire to play your games today. I will not specify anything,” you explain outright.
“What is so difficult to say about it, that you were angry because the person didn’t think the way you wanted to or made something more complicated or something else? Why do you have to be so angry?” I try to give in.
“You see, that’s exactly what I meant! So, you understand it after all!”, you triumphantly point out to me something that need not have been pointed out.
“Yeah, it wasn’t that difficult either. It’s just that I would like to know what you mean by disabled,” I continue. I insist. I know it.
“Anyone who is disabled by a physical or mental barrier is preventing them from acting or thinking normally,” you explain. It’s an attempt.
“And what is normal acting and thinking? Who defines this norm?” I now ask for my part. “Society. There is a certain average, and whoever deviates from it … “
“… is a deviator”, I finish your sentence for you, “Seen in this way, we are all disabled, restricted in our freedom of movement and thought.”
“Not me, I’m completely normal, but something of normal, nothing works anymore,” you explain to me with full conviction.
“We are all restricted because we have an origin that shapes us, because we grew up in and stay in a culture that influences our thinking. All of this gives us blinders, hinders us,” I explain thoughtfully, “I can’t escape myself.”
“Now you’re coming back to me with Sartre. And I’m supposed to be disabled too. Do I have to be told that?”
“No, you don’t have to, but maybe the next time you judge people that you are just as disabled as everyone else,” I calmly and calmly give you to consider. You get up and go. Without another word. You probably have a lot to do. Finally, I can read on in peace.