My dear,
Everything is more complicated than you think.
You can destroy your life every time you choose. But, maybe you won’t know for twenty years and you may never ever trace it to its source. And, you only get one chance to play it out. Just try and figure out your own divorce. And, they say there is no fate, but there is! It’s what you create. And, even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are only here for only a fraction of a fraction of a second.
Most of your time is spent being dead, or not yet born. But, while alive, you wait in vein wasting years for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And, it never comes, or it seems to but it doesn’t really… So, you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope, that something good will come along, something that will make you feel connected, something to make you feel whole, something to make you feel loved. And, the truth is, I feel so angry. And, the truth is, I feel so fucking sad. And, the truth is, I felt so fucking hurt for so fucking long. And, for just as long I’ve been pretending I’m okay, just to get along.
Just for… I don’t know why, maybe because, no one wants to hear about my misery because they have their own. Well… fuck everybody.
Falsely yours,
Synecdoche, New York
