The Fury

by Alex Michaelides

I often think life is just a performance. None of this is real. It’s a pretense at reality, that’s all. Only when someone, or something, we love dies, do we wake up from the play—and see how artificial it all is—this constructed reality we inhabit. We suddenly realize that life is in no way lasting, or permanent; no future exists—and nothing we do matters.

I have learned from bitter experience that you never win an argument with a narcissist. It doesn’t work like that. Your only victory is to leave.