Revolutionary road

Nothing makes sense anymore. I dig through books and movie scripts looking for reasons to smile, to hope. It doesn't work. It's hard to slip back into reality when you realize what you thought was the truth was really a big, steaming pile of bullshit.

Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe there was some happiness at the bottom of that grungy bucket -- underneath that big, steaming pile of bullshit.

Because we did laugh and we did hold hands and we did what every other couple was doing and maybe a little more. And I remember even a few weeks ago, a few months ago, last year -- us laughing and going everywhere, "explording". But more than that I remember last night and the night before that and the night before that. And December. And feeling so trapped and distrusted and desperate. Crying over nothing over and over again. But it had to be something because I felt like shit. I just wasn't listening.

I wanted so badly for us to work, to work forever. How foolish and naive of me. My mom always told me when two people come together (whether in a friendship or a relationship) they either grow together or they grow apart. I remember so many times telling others that that was exactly what I wanted. To grow up with you. To grow with you, learn with you. It didn't seem like such a bad idea, you were best friend after all.

I remember going to school and reading and learning and finding connections between every character I met and you. 1984. But those are just books, and these lives I delved so deep into were (and still remain) fiction. They have lived their lives and met their ends all throughout a myriad of numbered pages. Real life isn't like that and you know it. We all do.

We aren't a series of books, at least not in my mind. We aren't encyclopedias. You can't pick up volume "L" and read about "life" and "love" and "light" and pretend that volume "W" with the word "war" doesn't exist. Because war exists and so does famine and desperation and infidelity and lying. And they rage and they bomb and they fight between these pages. Whether we open the volume or not.

They exist. We just don't confront them.