I hate it and love it when there’s nothing to be said:
I’ve seen so many
movies and they fill the spaces in my head where my own ideas should be. I get really excited when I see a good film, it sustains me, it keeps me alive. My
tears are for the people in the movies, and they feel as real as my own tears. I so often feel that I’m living a
substitute life, a
temporary life. I tell myself I can leave it until tomorrow to piece it together. And I can, which is a comfort.
I examine my life as if I’m watching a film. That’s why I fell for that certain someone, I think. To me she was one of those characters in the movies with the intelligent, angry, cynical exterior - y’know the ones, who really inside are “beautiful people”. I guess I was always looking for the angel inside of her, and I loved this imaginary inner person more than her. But what is the proof that imaginings are any less substantial than reality?
My own simulated realities, my movies, it’s all the same. I am an escapist who is too scared to leave.