if we lived in real life, would most of our social lives be centered around funerals and wakes? is it a constant cycle or rejoicing, hurting, grieving, dying? what is life? would we honour life in death as equally as we honour dead life? do days go by lightning fast or like it’s feet have concrete poured over them? when life passes you by in slo-mo, like a bad b movie with an equally bad soundtrack playing in the background, annoying but still kinda relevant, totally confusing and nonsensical, yet still fascinating, showing the blurry carousel with the twisted face of a fiberglass horse in mid-gallop with one of its noses chipped off. round and round, turning around excruciatingly, painfully slowly. when your collective memorable life expectancy is less than ten insta-minutes. or ten years. who knows. no one.
no one really cares either. you are not their facebook friend or the dude who is oh-so-such-a-total-enigma-hawt-i-wanna-shag-him-hawt you see every godforsaken morning at your corner starbux. you’re not their boss who they have to suck up to to get more of a bonus next year to bring your grand total earning to forty five k per annum. you’re not even their twitter follower. no one gives a hoot or a nanny why your mind fails to compute three major crisis in the world right now: the injustice clearly witnessed everyday yet the unjust go free or why the kardashians insist on world domination or why dogs do not cover up their poop.
just as no one really cares if your sorry, fucked up heart has been broken time and time again. that it is currently, precariously held together by a strange contraption made up of craft glue, different pieces haphazardly twined up by a piece of red velvet ribbon and florist’s wire you found in a basket full of other weirdly found objects and stitched up with a prayer that you just get through the next few hours without the sound of another crack in that thing housed in your rib cage called a heart. your very existence reduced from a tidal wave of passion for life to a feeble ripple in a slow crawling creek.
no one really cares when they do hear that cracking sound because they are too busy crafting their own masks to fool the world into thinking they got this. booyah. this living of life so fabulously, faking it so well it becomes truth and everything you gotta say is a goddamn lie. sipping on dom perignon, ordering upgrades to the yacht and making sure that little business in the bahamas is flourishing while fervently hoping and wishing and crossing their fingers this life of theirs won’t bend them over and fuck them in the arse. reality hits. stocks crash. busineses fold. banks take over. the knees give way and hit the ground, a sob rattles their bodies. that sob turns into a scream, so shrill, so intense. pain, fear, nausea, worry, insecurity, panic, distress all collide. the little bang sets off the tearing of masks into shards and pieces. like that fat, disillusioned emperor who wore no clothes, we will all be exposed. found out to be that one thing we so desperately want to believe we are.