The reason why we don’t connect, is because I don’t live in your world. I don’t like your world, and I refuse to let you drag me into your reality.
My reality is carefully structured, and designed for maximum efficiency and optimal enjoyment of my life. The foundation was laid over many years and is still in the process of creation. And I like my universe, just the way it is. If I don’t, I adjust it, tweak the settings, increase some levels and reduce others.
I like some of the realities from movies and tv shows. The good ones are constructed with care, the writer pens the words and the directors paint the scene. The actors assume the identities and the soundtrack immerses the second and third senses. Suspension of belief convinces the remaining senses, and the world pulls me into the most crazy puzzles of human motivation and expectations.
If realities were cardboard boxes containing projectors, biographies are the equivalent of someone inviting me into their cardboard box, and connecting to mine. We all own boxes that we carry and share, in overlapping spheres of realities.
Your box is full of pain and loss, of conspiracy and emotion. Your projector replays the moments lost, caresses and symbols of meaning and portent. The lens always stares into yesterday and what could have been, of flowers and sunshine, of thunder and rage. Cardboard soaked in sweat and fog from a thousand mutterings and sighs, condensation dripping down the walls in moist claustrophobia. The expansion and compression like a womb at birth, in time with your breath, creates a toxic pressure and constrictive environment.
Your box, flipped upside down, catches acid rain. Filter the acid from the rain and you have one part good and one part bad. But you, you embrace the entire, unfiltered batch that stains your eyes and corrupts your projection film.
The reason why we don’t connect, is because I don’t live in your cardboard box. I don’t like your reality, and I refuse to let you drag me into your caustic world.