Once upon a time, I would write angsty poems about my pain, and how I'm suffering in this shell of mortality, how the world is absolutely unfair to my existence, how someone is this and that, and how I'm not, I would pine for a girl whom I've yet to know, worry myself to death about what this person thinks or what they do not think about me, and get all "dark and twisty" inside over silly things that don't matter. See my old blog entries.
And I'm not here to tell you how I've come so far (together, our common destiny) from that and learnt that the great truth about it all is that it boils down to pretending. In life, one either pretends to be something, or one discovers others who feel comfortable enough not to pretend with. That is all. Everything else is just fluff. Made up to make that person feel intrinsically unique and provide a sense of a valued existence.
Which means absolutely nothing when you think about it. No, seriously read this line again. It doesn't mean what it usually does. It means nothing.
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