I thought about you today. I know I did because there's not a lot of other stuff which I worry about. Even here, right now, I'm writing this because I can't talk to you. But still, there are things that I want you to know. Think about us. How did we meet? Who do we know in common? How much time did we spend together? What's the idea you have of me? Do I matter to you? I think deep down, I don't. It's something we have that's reciprocal. And it's perfectly fine.
Imagine thinking other people will notice, care and judge.
It's Sunday 5 PM. You're thinking about where and what you'll eat in an hour. You're lost in the Internet wormhole, your mind numbed by sensationalist posts from strangers. You're binge-watching an old series you're hooked on or maybe you are on the beach of a lake, roasting under the sun. Me? I'm writing about you. Because to this day you are the excuse I convince myself with. You are the reason I have nothing to say. Nothing of value, at least. You are my worst fear. You are the reason I set myself for failure. Why? Because my biggest fantasy; my most egotistic dream and the reason I'm frozen over in self-doubt and impostor's syndrome is that I think that you care.
I like to believe that you count the days between each of my posts. I like to believe that everything new that I try will be received by you as some type of revolutionary, avant-gardiste revelation. I like to see myself in your eyes the same way I see me; it would save a lot of time and sweat. If I can't reach that bar, I know that in your eyes, I'm the biggest failure there ever was and I can't bear the thought.
Truth is, I'm not entitled to you attention. Moreover, even the things you care about you forget within the span of a few months. You remember the premise of your favorite stories but how many of them could you quote? How many chapters could you precisely recount? You can't. Not because it's not real to you but because you're not meant to. And I mean this literally. So imagine the amount of Ego. Imagine how fucking stupid of me. Imagine how incredibly dumb and selfish of me it would be to not do the things I like to do because I'm scared you won't like it.
Like you gave a fuck.
But now, look at us. We are limiting our own creative output to the slavery of an algorithm that gives no shit about us if not for our selfies. We're thinking about following trends just to grow a fucking number next to our username that we believe will make other people think more of us. Even crazier, we think less of ourselves because we believe it makes them think less of us. Without the need of proof, without the need of a conversation or even a nod from them.
That's how dumb happiness can be.
Really, really dumb.
I decided otherwise, though. If I'm to live with the everlasting thought of you, you and I will have a conversation. You will understand that there are rules to our game and here they are : I get to do what the fuck I want and you get to decide whether or not you're a part of it. I have to let go someday and I think I prefer for this day to come earlier than not.
So yeah, I thought about you today. And I wanted to thank you. Thanks for letting me know how little you cared. That shit set me free. I hope one day you'll do the same. Maybe we'll meet again and laugh about how real we thought it was.