Why bother?

Why do I bother talking to you in the first place? X asks me. What am I trying to achieve? What do I want, a medal? I should stop and be quiet like a good boy, step outside, take a deep breath and enjoy the view in silence. Know my place. But I can’t, can I? With the breath and with the view come words. Then how can I possibly know my place? But what would you know about that, he says, and why bother trying to explain it to you?