You know what's the worst part about them?

They are not real.

None of them, they don't really exist. At least not like they appear to me in dreams, photographies and short letters. And I have seen them, most of them in person. But it's been so long now, it's been not just years, or miles apart; it's always more about the people. How many people away are they? How many friendships unlike mine did they have until they forgot about me? Or in the case of the foreigns, how many people would it take them to meet me, to see me? Those questions, I can't answer, thus, I don't know where are they. And so, they are just not real. If I don't know where they are.

And there are several problems with this, because that's just how I am, I entrust my hopes of happiness in these strangers who, at the end of the day are not real, and then I have to pick up after the mess. And it's just silly.

It's silly because you are not even dreamy, or ideal, for anyone whatsoever. But for me? Well, I dream about you, so technically, and literally speaking you are in fact, dreamy. And I hate that, because I know how you are (sort of), and I know how it would be, the first time we met. (It has happened, you see, in my dream I was able to move back in time with my memories. In there I moved things around so to get to actually meet you, present myself. But none of that has any value because it happened in a memory... in a dream). It makes me feel so pathetic to actually dream about it, but it also feels sort of reassuring of some humanity inside. So that's the problem with you.

Then there is her, who for some reason is the only symbol standing between me being a hypocrite and me being a cynic. And that is because she is actually the type of person I talked about the other day, the rebellious tribe. And she also happens to be at the same time part of the Masked-to-dazzle crew. And yet I think of her, even if we were not so close, even if she'd think I'm stalking if I tell, even if she is a complete stranger (and unreal), she is a problem. Because like you, the image of her grows in me, and just like with you, I know I can't really reach her.

There is another her, but she is not really someone I long for, but instead something I wish I had, not her, but her experience. And she is sort of a mix of she and you. And you know her, you're actually good friends. But of course she has long forgotten about me, and there is no really a reason why to contact her back; other than having self pity.

She, she and you should make a party, make sure to leave evidence; and then just for the purpose of being cruel, should have someone near that resembles me, and you should all like him, and praise him, so I would know that could be me, but never would.

Of course there is they, who all live in digital paper, and who will never even by chance meet me. I know they are so very different, and I could not really bond with them. Yet, they are the only people who could possibly understand some things neither of you could. But that's fine, I can live without them, I only need to see them occasionally. But that need of seldom observation is their problem. I cannot have them, but I cannot lose them.


And finally there is us, we. We have problems. The rest of you may have not noticed them, and probably won't for the time being, but the roots have rooted and the branches will soon branch. You see, the problem with us is really no one's fault. It's just that as the I grows larger into other directions, the space in WE simply feels more narrow. And it will probably get to a point where it will burst, I will escape, you will not know what was of me. And then, years later I will reminisce of these times, looking back and wishing I could contact you guys, but it will be too late, I will think.


And that... is the base of destiny and fortune telling. Finding a pattern in the past, and knowing that no matter how changed in the cover, the core of the future will always be the same.






[I'm sorry, there are just some days I NEED to be alone. These days happened to be those]
by I'm the penguin