Hole

It was simple. I'd seen a show and it hurt me, showed me what I was missing.

Everyone was to die - they knew it. so they clung to what they cared most about. A man made a dire attempt to call the love of his life, but was unsuccessful. He was assured that she knew he loved her and it was true. They all knew how it worked. He loved her. She loved him. It was broken, and time fought and challenged them.

But nothing was more apparent in that moment of inevitable doom.

That's what struck me most. The inevitability, the absoluteness, the tearing and undiscountable truth of the thing. I knew it was just a story, some pictures, some actors, and some writers just doing their jobs. Doing them well, but it was just their fucking job.

Now I'm here looking at what these actors, writers, filmmakers - these artists - have done.

Their cute little lies didn't even need to be well executed - though they were. The principle is all I needed. If I were on the verge of death, that's not how I'd spend it. I would spend it laughing. Mocking the love, worry, and haste of the people I watch from day to day. The people I work with - silly. My neighbors? Naive  The women I'd asked to care about me have been fools.

But I watch this man and his uninhibited authenticity. I see him unafraid to die. He has so much left undone and much to live for, but he sees the end and knows exactly what how he wants it to look - an expression of his soul's connection.

I watched it happen. It was fake. It was film. It was written and so obviously set up. But I watch it and see a hole in myself. I see a moment I'd waste if it were real.

And I spend the rest of my night in tears.