The Catch

Books can be dangerous. They show you something beautiful, someting spectacular, something you admire. Then reality hits and you know you can't have it. That's depressing.
    Have you ever fallen in love with a fictional creature? Not the sexual kind of love, just as you would fall in love with a close friend. There's someting about the person you really like, or admire. You think the two of you would have so much to speak about; you have so much to tell, and so much to listen to. But you won't. Because fictional people don't exist.
    Sometimes I think someone's laughing at me. And my angst.
    Perhaps people need to be depressed once in a while, just to be able to feel joy and happiness later on. If you don't know what pain is, how then could you know joy?
    I'm getting all fucked up inside when reading a good book, and beginning to care for the people in it. Because I know I'll never meet them, I'll never tell them all I'd like to, and I'll never ask them all things the author has left out. It's even worse if the book isn't fictional. Because then I know they're there, just too far away.
    There's a catch-22 situation. I can't live without the books. I couldn't serve reality fulltime. But living with books I'll have to accept feeling like going crazy and taking the world with me, once in a while. It's a catchy situation.
    Depressing, isn't it?

robin