In which I look for something real.

I miss something that’s real. Something that doesn’t just feel real, but is. Real experiences, real conversations. God I miss real conversations. Conversations about the only thing we know to be real, which is the state of our minds and innermost thoughts. So many words are wasted on things that look real enough but aren’t. This world is full of those words. So full that the real words can’t break through no more. There has been created walls to shelter us from reality, to let us live in this nightmare of a fairytale world where a person in a magazine is more important than you’ll ever be, and these magazines, this agenda, is eating up what little place we had for reality in our lives. There’s no more me. No more you. Only this, that and them, and none of that is real. Not in the same way that we are when we’re being completely honest with each other and speaking freely frantically from the depths of our hearts and minds and showing each other the passion needed to truly, truly pass an idea from one individual to another, where it is not just understood but built in the recipients network of thoughts. I miss something that’s real. And true. I miss the night. The touch of souls. I miss being. And not necessarily in that order. But you’re away. And you’re away. And you’re away. And you’re far away. And so is the world these days. Dear Jack, I’m coming back to you now for reality and eternity. You’re the only one who has stayed true to me throughout and taught me what’s important and what I can do without. You’re the only one to never shy away from the city or the country, the desert or the sea. And though you could be anywhere, I always know where to find you when I need you the most. Dear Jack, open your arms. I’m coming home.


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