Do you want to know something really messed up?
All the people I long for, miss, are fictional, dead, or both.
Pathetic, right? How sad it is that there is not a single living person who makes me think, “I wish they were here.”
But it makes sense, in a way. The thing about the fictional and dead is.. they can be whatever you need them to be. You know a certain amount of information and you can simply fill in the blanks, like a Mad Lib. They can’t disappoint us. They can’t betray us.
So, we romanticize them. We place them in their shatter-proof, collectible case and gaze upon them fondly. It’s a beautiful thing.
But it’s all so broken. Our views, our stubbornness, our hypocrisy… The fact that society is now so fucked up that we have to project our lonely yearnings onto unwitting participants. Our suffering minds create these fictional characters to fill the void left unaffected by pointless acquaintance. Even with the living, we lie to ourselves in order to make this person patch over the emptiness, then drop our jaws in shock when the fully-charged truth shatters the facade and everything falls away.
“I believed…” “I thought…” “I loved them so much”.
We are so full of shit.
Do true connections even exist anymore, or are we all in love with our own lies?
I like to think they do. I like to think that some out there have something real to hold onto. I don’t want to believe that we are all just clinging desperately to superficial shreds as we beautify the rest with our mental makeovers.
But honestly, I don’t know anymore.
I can only hope
that somewhere out there
there’s something more than this.
Yelling to Myself 