Thinking.

Why are we so determined to make others believe our lives are this wall art masterpiece? Not only am I speaking for other people, but for myself. I know I have done this many times. We want the world we know to see us as happy people. We convince our Facebook community that our days are exciting and delightful; that we are humorous and witty. I know the dirty little gossip column details of a far friend's life; and I see that she, nonetheless, was very "happy" going to church with her wonderful husband this morning. Someone else, that I know all too well, was always so thrilled to see her boyfriend of past weathers; the one to whom she was also very "thrilled" to walk down the dark aisle with; leading to a path of misery. Now she continues to paint perfection through a blog that she's has been making over dramatic love to for years.

Why are we so consumed into this virtual, unrealistic world? We can angle a camera to make strangers believer we are taller, shorter, skinnier, prettier, curvier, bustier, happier. Does this make us believe that we are, actually, this content with who we are? Taking images on our MacBook's until we get one that is lovely enough for our friends to see in the News Feed.

Twisting and turning our trials to resemble beauty; relationships that are failing behind closed "walls." The private messaging between long lost lovers who have finally reunited, obsessing over what once was. What could be; with this fake image of ourselves that we produce like a top selling product. All the while, we are all degrading lives behind a screen, so we feel higher, stronger, wiser, and more lovely than the next.

Why, are we all so good and pretending? Playing make believe like we did on the playground. Girls always have boyfriends, and by 2:00 recess, their husbands always come home on time. They give them flowers on anniversaries, and help them create beautiful children that never seem to misbehave. Their diamond rings blind our screens, with their white smile making us feel miserable for feeling so alone. So we stare into the indefinite black hole of this reality, where we all leave the surface in title waves of happy memories.

"Besides, we all are making money. And we are all fucking alone. And we don't know what we are doing. Maybe just buying us some hope."