You say you’re a story teller and I believe you. You’re obsessed with stories- an artist of sorts- and I both admire and pity you for it. Why can’t you just let things be? Why must life be embellished through the retellings, no less than raw and tragic? Why must you live as though nothing is real? As if life is but a stage and you a performer, with every interaction a calculated exchange? Why must you look to the stars in contemplation just because your jaw has found the appropriate lighting? Why must you woo the college girl in the garden just because the scene allows it? All that is missing is a cameraman.
You talk to me but you listen to yourself. You read off a script that must sound impressive, inspiring. You patent every thought and claim their originality. Yes, mortality is scary, our insignificance is scary, but much more so to you, it seems. Why must you equate your value with fame and immortality? Are we not equal in death? “No”, you say. “Some people are more important than others”. And so I applaud you for earnestly looking for meaning, even if it is to be created. All the lunatics believe in something. They’re not insane, they’re just trying to find god, faith, something to believe in. Maybe a little faith keeps us sane because life is hopeless otherwise.
I let you hold my hand but it is meaningless. I am so tired of small chat. I’m tired of pretending for a shallow connection, but I will pretend and I will be someone else for the moment so I don’t have to run away. For now, the laughter is real. I’ve let myself go in this character and it makes me sad.