Sad endings

It's particularly painful to see yourself so connected to fictitious characters. Holding onto them, crying with them. Real world does not move me as us they do. Why? Is it because I am lonely, craving a connection, craving the need to be understood?

They know what we want. They know how to manipulate us into little soft balls of  play dough. We, the audience, are totally malleable in their hands. 

The state of acknowledging that someone else has such power over us, could that be an act of intelligence?

I know, at this point I am rambling, because I want to bare all. I want to show you the inside of my soul. I want to give up on my feigned sanity. I want you to give in to my stubborn desire.

But I lie, because I still don't dare to show all.

I fear powerful words.

Like love. And Loss.

They keep building through life, building up. I keep my raw edge blunt. Because I fear cutting myself otherwise. And then bleeding all out.

So I keep my hesitation intact. I don't dare to name real feelings, just keep them as a sound that barely leaves my throat.

Only at times, through fiction, do I occasionally let the build up materialise into something tangible.

Knowing that soon it will ebb. Just like it peaked. 

But in that moment, it's real. It's painful. 

And I know I cried for something that does not exist.

On second thoughts though, maybe I cried because it does not exist.