Dripped From the Pages

Over the course of time you may see fit to overanalyze your situation, your surroundings, your life.
You will assign endless meanings to everyday objects, as if you were an english professor and your room was the newfound symbolic setting of Holden Caulfield’s latest existential crisis.
As if your door was the title avian of Harper Lee’s greatest success.
As if you were anything more than human.
Maybe if you pretend hard enough that your life has meaning then it will.
But the fact of the matter is that simply pretending is not enough.
I regret to tell you that you will slip out of this hopeful phase and you will realize the truth of reality.
This is not a tale of classic literature.
You are not Jean Valjean, repented and rehabilitated, you are prisoner 24601, looking down in chains.
You are not Frankenstein, you are his monster.
And at the end of it all you will discover that a room is just a room, a door just a door, and yourself just a human, a byproduct of the years.