Superman is Dead

Superman is Dead

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"I don't know", She said. "I suppose I went in an opposite direction to what was expected of me, but then again maybe not. Maybe the direction I went in was inevitable. When we look at the products of our work it generally takes one of two directions and within pop psychology either of those ways is as cliched as the other."

It always comes back to love.

If you're not making effort in a relationship, it's because you don't want to make the effort. It isn't a lynch-able offence to not like someone enough to make that effort. If my gut is telling me that you don't care enough then you don't care enough.

And this isn't necessarily a bad thing. You are under no obligation to me, to see me, to enjoy my company, to love me. It does not make you a bad person. If you can't make time to fit someone in your life, it probably means you don't want to make time. That is ok, it is ok, you are ok. I am ok.

It always comes back to heartache.

When it feels like your whole life is under a microscope, looked at by romantic partners, looked at by yourself, anxiety caused by knowing that our movements will ultimately lead to a love from someone else, or a rejection. A self-perpetuating circle that benefits no-one, except, possibly, a sycophantic joy to the dogmatic analyser (but relationships shouldn't be like that).

A lot has happened this year, a lot that has caused me to re-evaluate where I stand and what I want to do. In six months I re-kindled a love affair that I thought I was done with, and simultaneously embarked on a whimsical fantasy with a completely different man (boy). I contemplated going back to University and visited an open day or two. I spoke with course leaders and started an application, then stopped because of how it might look if I failed.

It always comes back to wanting to be connected.

I've spent far too much time leafing through Learning To Love you More, the stories are anonymous but not and within that I feel like I might be connected to something bigger. Hood rats watch me come out the shop and they call me a bitch and I think I might be. Tales of the everyday that are so easily over looked. I consume everything Miranda July has ever done and think about all my own stories, and the ones that I'm still too scared to tell.

THEN I SEE THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE WIND AND AN [AUTO]CAR. THE WIND CAN HIT A TREE, SHIFT AROUND IT, AND THEN KEEP GOING, BUT AN [AUTO]CAR BECOMES CRUMPLED TO A WRECK. AND THAT’S WHAT HAPPENS HERE.

SATAN BURGER, CARLTON MELLICK III

It always comes back to love.

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