Figments of my imagination.

“I like that quote,” she said, pointing to a James Dean poster.

And I told her how I love, that people love such cliche’ things. And that mankind is pretty much doomed, if people need posters that say such cliche’ things, to feel better about life.

She said she’s ‘’high on life.” I couldn’t help but disagree.

I said, really? No you’re not. And if are, then it must be a really depressing high.

Life used to be much easier before I started figuring things out.

The happy have the advantage of stupidity.
It’s the knowing that’s driving me insane.

Knowing how predictable, selfish, and …

No … I need to stir things up a little. The shit needs to hit the fan.

This is no more fun. Something insane must always happen.

Life shouldn’t be this easy. I need mental trauma.

And all your drama.

And everything needs to go wrong.

And everyone needs to stab each other in the back.

And our backs should hurt our knives.

Otherwise, we don’t have anything to go on for.

We need more wars. And more natural disasters.

Otherwise, life is just a stroll in the park.

I’m not a pessimist. I’m not narcissistic. And I’m not sexist. I’m just realistic.

“That’s a smart way of saying, you’re a little pessimistic, a little narcissistic, and a little sexist – but it’s fine,” she said.

And if only she was real. Then maybe all of this would’ve been easier.

If only I was real, maybe yours would be too.

We’re all figments of our own imaginations. Because the world is what you turn it into.

Too bad none of it is real.