I think I was idolising you, and now I realise you’re just this normal person, going through life in this normal way, and the depth and intricacies and the fascinating aspects of who I think you were, were all but imagined. There is no depth, there is no profoundness, there is no weight to the words that you say. There is just this very normal, ordinary existence, with no need or search for purpose, with no seeking for a deeper understanding of life.
All of this connection, this imagined bond, was a big misunderstanding, was an unlucky accident, a failure of judgment, a failure to see what’s really beyond the surface. All that’s interesting being just the embellishments of my imagination, the reincarnation of my own deep thoughts, projected onto hollowness, nothingness and boredom, that you carry, to make it more profound, more interesting, entertaining and worthwhile, a projection of my imagination, vivid feelings and thoughts, onto something that’s not even real. A pure fiction. An empty soul, an empty, hollow, ordinary, boring being, with a painfully boring existence.
Is the heartbreak, a heartbreak of losing our own creation, a creation that never was? But then how can we grieve something that wasn’t real? How is it that we always grieve the unborn? And how is it that sometimes it pains us more than what truly was, than the ordinary lived out realities with all their disappointment and imperfection seem so much easier to let go of, than the fantasies that never was, the fantasies of the perfect life that never was.
In this realm, can we truly ever be fulfilled, if the life that we crave doesn’t exist, and hasn’t been invented yet, if the product of our imagination is just that, a figment of our imagination, that dies before it was even born.
Can we ever be truly satisfied and find peace and meaning in the human bonds? Or is our one and only true bond lies within ourselves? Are we the only true mates, the so-called soulmates, to ourselves?
Is loneliness even real, if what you crave doesn’t exist? If the reality can never be enough, and only unreality can ever satisfy, are you lonely, or do you simply exist?
But why then, existing purely in our thoughts, in the projected and idolised unrealities of our imagination, why is it so exhilarating yet painful still? Is it because while experiencing it, we simultaneously are aware of its fleeting non-existence? Is dreaming just a painful paradox that is both necessary to our survival, but also our worst enemy, our most cunning threat that cuts deeper than we can imagine, that threatens our very own self.
Enjoying life to its fullest, what does it even mean?
Each to their own, and yet every single person will echo a very similar script, a very similar notion that they were told, by someone who was told, by someone who was told before.
And yet have we ever been taught the opposite, have we ever been truly encouraged to find what it really is by ourselves, for ourselves? Has anyone ever told you to look any deeper beyond the ordinary, beyond your friendships, beyond your travel, beyond even the movies, the theater and the books? Beyond even helping others and beyond self help? See now what is left there, that is truly profound, even if it’s the nothingness, pure nihilism, an emptiness that is a threat that you ache to fill. To feel that, to allow yourself to truly feel that, and once felt, to look even deeper, that’s the true power, bravery, and essence of who you are.
Because you are not your friendships, you are not your misfortunes or vivid world travels, those are just the embellishments, the stories that you tell.
They do not define you, they are just your chosen ways to experience the world. Who you truly are, is still left open to interpretation, like a book or a movie with ambiguous ending, a blank canvas that hasn’t been explored, yet everyone will explore it in a different way. Everyone will experience your presence and will storytell your existence in their own interpretations of you, unless you truly grow into yourself, unless you really know who you are.
And in the end, for you, she will never be as profound, or as beautiful, or as scary as I was, because she is not me. And you hate me for it, because I know it, and that makes me arrogant, and arrogant people are inherently hated, even when we are onto something that’s inherently true.
And in the end, it is simpler this way. It is less scary, less painful, less everything, and sometimes that’s a better, sufficient choice.
Because what if it’s scary because it is not, and would not, ever be enough? The essence of who you are, not being what I thought, what I hoped, what I prayed for, and that would be the most devastating ending of all, more devastating than the love that is unborn, the love that died before it even existed.