Bovary
I've fell too deeply. There is no real turning back beyond this moment. The fiction matters too much. It means too much, while reality remains like an unwanted child in the belly of a compromisal fiance.
I tread on, willingly, further down this trench in order to even get a glimpse of what they call emotion or drama, just a tiny glimpse. I hear about it all the time, made up by fellows, documented and broadcasted, sung and written - they all talk about this as if it were some every day drug.
Yet as I pursue it and try to fathom its complexity, the bitterness of reality shines truer and truer yet.
I would kill myself to experience a season's worth of drama.
Just a season.
As opposed to this lifetime of apathy and warfare...
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