The Cave

Humans are the most messed up creatures on earth. I wish that meant more than it does, because the only reply to that statement is “no shit”, but hear me out…

I just can’t imagine that any other intelligent being could be as stupid and emotional as we all are. We don’t understand one another and we don’t understand ourselves.

We… ha… you all know that I’m just talking about myself. Not that projecting this aspect of me onto the rest of humanity is incorrect, I’m sure it’s right, but this is personal. We’re all fucked up, we’re all just chaotic jumbles of emotion staggering about in the dark and knocking into one another. We don’t know what we’re doing, we have no clue where we’re going, but we sure as hell aren’t going to admit that to anyone.

We try to form rules for this existence, to make guidelines for how to form relationships and who to form them with. We try to artificially construct rules for responding to one another, but it doesn’t work. It’s all fake, it’s bullshit. We’re all just in the Cave, chained, staring at the shadows on the wall. I just wish people could be honest with each other about the things that matter. I wish people could just see me for who I am, but no one wants that.

Like J.D. once said, “…nobody is themselves when they start dating. Dating is just acting like you're somebody you're not until the person likes you enough so you can show 'em who you really are.”

It all sickens me so much. But, the worst part is that I’m sure I am really no better than anyone else in this aspect. I just sit here and write and wonder about everything, instead of going out and making connections, instead of interacting. I write here and hope that someone will get it, someone will understand where I’m coming from and get that this stupid little blog means far more to me than it ever should. I assume that someday someone will read around all the jokes, all the literary references and insanity and find those little bits of me that are pure and real, the true essence of all of my confusion, and understand.

But, in the end it’s not for them that I do this, I do it for myself and only myself. There is that hope that someone will understand it all, but that’s not the point. I write because I would no doubt go mad otherwise and become some twisted, wretched.

I know I’m just fumbling around in the dark here, groping for others in the hopes that perhaps they can see, perhaps we can save one another. Maybe someday I’ll find the light.