To my future husband, to any future partners in my life, really, to those I will meet and never meet: This is a warning, an advertisement, a proclamation that should be read carefully before any contact is established:

I am a coward and a hypocrite.

Aren’t we all, you ask?

Perhaps, but at least most people live out their illusioned lives despite expected disappointments ahead, despite nihilistic, depressive thoughts of the meaningless of it all.

At least, their illusions give them that very sense of illusive meaning; that’s the only thing we’ve got left, really. I just cannot face them. I’ve tried and found no permanent satisfaction in them. Maybe that’s life, you’ll say. A lifespan of fleeting, momentary boats of satisfactions that we so desperately grab after and try to cling to with no great success and where this goal comes to justify the means. Or there is no goal, just the means.

Do I have the courage to face life?

I don’t know.

Am I discouraged?

Yes.

Or maybe I only tell myself so because I lack motivation, inspiration, aspiration in life.

I only have this life, I know.

It frustrates me.

I want thousands of lives. I want reincarnation, over and over again, as a million things in this world. Try them all out. I suddenly understand why some people become actors; why humans cannot cope with just one personality, one way of life, but need to try out an entirely different one, no matter the pain, wrath or misery they may go through in this new life. At least, it will only be momentary; lasting only as long as the role requires. But some have trouble quitting. Some don’t come back. Some have trouble finding their old identity and life. Perhaps they realize they never had one to begin with. Perhaps they realize that identity is never stable, but liquid, multifaced and changeable in the most frightening of manners; something you cannot undo or return to when first you have crossed that border. Like taking someone’s life; forever unchangeable, forever marking you with that sordid deed. Like the passing of time; the knowledge that even if you could travel back in time you wouldn’t be able to relive that life exactly as you did, knowing what you now know.

Some cannot handle this fact, some end it or desperately seek the next job, the next fleeting identity to assume in order to have some stability, something reliable and certain, yet knowing it will only be temporary. How will you or those around you know if what you feel and say and do is real and not just a mirror of some role, some character, some shadow of someone else?

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