In my old life, I remember that there used to be numerous conversation about a guy at church. He’d gone to law school, and had done pretty well. But he just couldn’t pass the bar exam. He took it over, and over, and failed every time. He’d taken it 10 times at that point and, of course, no one had any positive expectations the 11th time he tried. And true to likelihood, he failed that time too.
Continue reading So, What’s The Point?
Friendship means a lot to me. It’s hand over heart, where I can feel your heartbeat and you can touch mine. Back to the wall, you’d be by my side, arm in arm prancing down the street.
The concept of friendship has diverged into two parts – the reality and the ideal.
The ideal is what I prefer. Friends are the people who stand by you when the world destroys your dreams. Friends give late night hugs, talk you off the ledge, pick you up when others were all too eager to shove you down. Friends keep your secrets, and don’t mock your fears no matter how impractical. Friends love you no matter what, they support you even when family break you. They march with you for your causes, even if they aren’t necessarily their own. They love you unconditionally, or as close to it as one can be.
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.