Sometimes, reality is so inadequate, so common, so very bland and dull, that it breaks my heart.
There is a deep-rooted yearning within me for towering, blissful romances, for magical creatures to descend from the clouds, to sing and dance in a desert beneath the stars and moonlight with a cheeky, rattling skeleton.
Sometimes, I get so lonely, so hurt and empty, like there’s a tiny, pinprick black hole in my heart slowly sucking away the rest of me, molecule by molecule, that I can only cope through writing and retreating into my imagination.
I want to grasp every single human being within my reach and press them to me and for the both of us to find comfort in knowing that the other is alive, and feeling, and breathing, and hurting. But no-one is willing to do that, everyone has walls, even me, and so instead, I just sit in my room, arms aching for a phantom chest to press against and ghostly heartbeat to listen to, so as to not feel so alone and afraid and lost.
But even if I did get my towering romance, the sweet would soon lose its flavor after a few chews.
Even if magical creatures did descend from the sky, soon the scientists would be dissecting and probing them, their bloodshot, mangled bodies splashed across the front of newspapers.
Maybe after dancing with the skeleton, it would promptly collapse into mere bones into the desert sand, and leave me thirsty and alone and wandering.
And no matter how much I think a pair of warm, understanding arms clasping me during the night will assuage my fears and loneliness, in the end, the demons snigger on the inside, and no amount of holy water splashed against the skin does anything.
I think so much my brain wants to explode.
I feel so much it’s as if every pore of my body is trying to shed tears, each tear painful as a droplet of sharp glass.
I yearn so hard, and so long, that my soul lilts out from between my rib cage like the panting tongue of a dog.
I feel so much joy it as if my heart would splinter from sheer happiness, the shards scattering into the air like golden dandelion seeds.
And I’m terrified all this thinking and feeling and seeing and yearning is but clutching at mists, at fairy wings that crumble at the slightest touch.
I’m scared of that black hole one day eating up all the rest of me, leaving a gaping hole in the world where I used to be, such black emptiness, nothing but a static wash of misery forever gaping at the world with grey, morose eyes.
Reality does leave a lot to the imagination.
I guess it’s lucky we have our books. I guess it’s lucky we have the internet. I guess it’s lucky we have ourselves, and can comfort ourselves, and fool ourselves. I guess it’s lucky that we can pick up a skull and talk to it.
Skull? How are you doing?
Yeah. Me too.