We build ourselves gilded cages made of shiny baubles and possessions, which substitute a warm touch. The love we wish to receive from others can be directly measured in shopping sprees and grand declarations of self love. And yet as much as we try to adorn ourselves in pretty dresses and fine jewels it is only a mark of the emptiness inside. Every penny spent shows the number of hugs and smiles we wished we got from the people we care about, sprinkled with misdirected promises of the life we wish we lived, but can only see in movies and read in books, whose characters stand for the idealised standards real humans will never measure up to. The romantics among us will spend lifetimes trying to become those dramatic heroes, who show up with flowers and boomboxes under someone's window, only to discover someone else inside that room with the object of our affection, treating them worse than we ever would. They will proceed to spend countless hours asking the bottoms of a series of cra...
Writer. Poet. Essayist