all it'll ever be

I’m watching this show, Normal People, and it’s extremely dramatic and emo, and the characters move kind of slow, except that slow isn’t

the right word. I guess they just take time to think. They say things that seem kind of profound, in a way? Or maybe it’s just the way they’re

saying the things. 

I guess the production has brought a kind of melancholy to my day. I feel lethargic in a way that makes my bones feel heavy,

like I’m unable to take my arms off the table, and I have trouble moving my fingers forward to type.

Does that mean it’s well made? Or that the production as a whole has achieved its goal of being ‘great’? That it has affected me, so?

Or does that say more about me? That the content of a show has so great an influence on me, that I can act in a completely

different way, allowing the aesthetic to bleed into my life, and modify the way I see and do and say things. 

I simultaneously love and hate it. I love finding a piece of work that is done so well I am completely wrapped up in it.

I love when something is so good to me that I can lose myself in it for hours. But at the same time, I feel very vulnerable to the world.

Like I’m opening myself up to what I don’t have and trying to fill the empty spaces with fictional things. 

A love story. A purpose. A soul mate. A connection. 

In my head I’m in a space in Ireland, and the camera is doing an extreme close up, using a macro lens to focus on my eyelashes,

where a portion of my face takes up the screen, and I’m saying these things and using words that I wouldn’t normally use,

and I’m being introspective, and I’m saying something that matters. 

In reality, I’m sitting at a desk at work, in a room with no windows, writing instead of doing the work I’m currently being paid to do.

I’m dreaming about being in a place that doesn’t exist. I’m in garish green scrubs, and just burped because I’m drinking diet coke.

My hair is in a messy bun, but not the kind that is cute, and it’s greasy, and I’m alone.

I’m feeling lonely, but there’s no one I can call. I want to talk to someone who knows me.

I want to talk to someone and tell them how much I love them, and have them tell me how much they love me.

I want the drama of love, and I want the drama of real-life to consume me, like a creative work of art does. 

Instead, I’m stuck in real life. Which is fine, because it’s real, and that’s all it’ll ever be. 

…

...but that’s all it’ll ever be.