"...And it came to me then. That we were wonderful traveling companions but in the end no more than lonely lumps of metal in their own separate orbits. From far off they look like beautiful shooting stars, but in reality they're nothing more than prisons, where each of us is locked up alone, going nowhere. When the orbits of these two satellites of ours happened to cross paths, we could be together. Maybe even open our hearts to each other. But that was only for the briefest moment. In the next instant we'd be in absolute solitude. Until we burned up and became nothing."
"Why do people have to be this lonely? What's the point of it all? Millions of people in this world, all of them yearning, looking to others to satisfy them, yet isolating themselves. Why? Was the earth put here just to nourish human loneliness?"
I think my insufferable inclination to romanticize even the most banal situations comes from my love for books. There is no one to be blamed but myself - the lines of idealism and realism is blurred. Unfortunately my idealistic, almost naïve, field of vision more often than not conflicts with realism, and my utter disdain for the reality that I am in, makes me far more disappointed in myself than I should be.
My addiction to escapism is simply fuelled by my what-seems-to-be never-ending search to be complete. Somewhere, in the vast, vast mass of the Earth is a place I'd wake up everyday on the right side of the bed, my idiosyncrasies will be celebrated, is not black, white or grey. Somewhere out there in the vast, vast, mass of the Earth is someone who loves me. And it is not here.
Anywhere but here. Anywhere but here. Anywhere but here.