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Everyone needs help sometimes, Jane.
“Well, we’re all strangers to each other, when you get down to it. It’s just that we sometimes choose not to be.”
It’s easy to forget it, but then you have these moments that remind you how incredible it is that we even fucking exist. The rest of it—all the crap we worry about, the cerebral contortions we go through to try to make meaning of existence—is nothing at all compared to the miracle that we can do this. Just being together with other human beings. Dancing. Alive.”
We are undone by the specificity of our dreams. Reality can never live up to the shining edifices we forge inside our fantasies: Life, in all its confusing complexity, is destined to be a disappointment in comparison.
Life is a constant emotional calibration, then: the tiny adjustments we make every day as we come up against our discontents. We ride this seesaw, between hope and disenchantment, seeking some sort of equilibrium.
The longing for love is a flawed piece of human coding. It scrambles every circuit in your brain, fries your logic boards, makes it impossible to compute. Seized by our need to be loved, we are unable to see anything clearly, even how we might save our own skin. It’s only much later, with the clarity of distance, that we can see how blind we were. How needy. How desperate. How stupid.
It’s the world that’s mad, not you.
