The abstract idea of a person is better than the person themselves. This is a truth no one will ever tell you, but you have to find out for yourself. But once you know this truth, the life that follows will be viewed by you in a completely different light. People are lesser than their abstract ideas. What that means is that when you are far away from someone, in body or in spirit what you imagine them to be is an exaggerated version of their real human selves and when after years of pining and dreaming of them to be the answer to your every ache, they materialize next to you and you find that who they are in reality just cannot match up to who you thought they could actually be. Not for you at least. And then comes this dark place where you wish you had been left pining forever, for in that pining and ache there was at least something to look forward to, not this disappointing human form that lies flaccid next to you as you feel the same turmoil you did when alone except this time, you have a passive witness, you have someone to blame and someone to be angry with, you have someone who makes it easier for you to not pay attention to yourself, and lose sight of your being, you have someone, a scapegoat in your struggle to become a person. People are always lesser than their abstract ideas. And no one can save you but yourself.
In the abstract idea of a person, we let our imagination run free, and how it runs, fuelled by our personal needs and wishes, how it runs to make our minds happy and to keep it engaged and distracted from feeling any real pain. In the abstract idea of a person, we allow them to be everything they could have been but are not. We allow them to be our saviour and our soul mate, we allow them to save us though we have learnt to save ourselves and though on more than one occasion that we prefer to forget or keep at the very back end of our minds, inaccessible and forgotten, we’ve saved them. The abstract idea of a person is a fantasy and no reality can ever match up to the glitter and perfect form of a fantastical being. Doomed is that person, who has to match up to the fantastical being in your head, doomed he is to fail and disappoint you. Doomed he is to never be what you want him to be. Doomed. Just like you.
The warmth of his arms that you imagined every night that you slept alone, is far superior to the clumsy and at times hurting arms of his in real life. And you find your perverse mind, crawling back to the comforting thought of his fantastical arms when in reality you are laying uncomfortable in his grip that is too tight for your comfort. Your mind prefers the fantasy. As do you.
The fantasy is designed for us and it knows just exactly what it wants. It is made to order and fits us to the tee, unlike real human beings who have no way to fit us perfectly, unless we learn to adapt to them. This is the truth that no one will tell you. We spend our whole lives finding our perfect fit, the other half of us as Plato had us believe, the half that we are incomplete without, the person whose soul is made of that same thing that our soul is made of as classic literature would tell us, whose breath is so vital to our own and whose body gets so amalgamated with our own that we lose awareness of where our bodies end and theirs begin. But in the end we learn after much hardships and heart breaks, that there is no such thing as a perfect fit, it is just two people wanting to be with each other despite everything. Despite each other. And that is what we didn’t know to begin with.