/lit/ - Literature

I want life to have real meaning, and because it doesn't, I alternate between living inside my own mind, devoting myself to a better world that may never come, and that I can only get intimations of in rare moments, and being bombarded by fragments of other people's lives, which I don't identify with and can't understand, but can sometimes feel, in a way that is never satisfying and only makes me sad and a little envious. Today was the first day that felt like spring so people were out everywhere, and I was trying to make sense of what it's like to be inside their worlds. If I were like them I could envy them straightforwardly, as having what I want but don't have. If I were totally unlike them I wouldn't notice them. Somehow I'm caught in between the two extremes.

Sometimes I listen to trashy pop music that I imagine basic bitches listen to, and it floods me with a thought process that goes something like, this is a basic world of movie magic romance and normie adventures where everything makes sense from start to finish, no it doesn't that doesn't exist, it's a Hollywood illusion sold to normies, but then, they think it exists, so it sort of does exist for them? So do I envy it or not? Is what they experience a simulation, or a fragment, or a reflection through a glass darkly, of a way of life that used to be and could be again? Is that the way of life I want to help create, justifying my exclusion from these fragments and distorted after-images of it? Maybe, at least my sacrifice and dedication could contribute in some small way to restoring the full, real, original version of what Hollywood and pop music now only sell to normies in pre-packaged tatters.

On days like today it's the worst. When I think of how much there is left of spring and the summer to come I feel a mixture of fear and resignation.