I think that after an entire year (and then some) of hitting my head against the same wall, convincing myself that something will miraculously change if I just word things differently, give it more time, model empathy and compassion, sacrifice just a little more, all I've derived is that my head fucking hurts (excuse my language... eh... no. We're all adults here).
I am the Anne Sullivan to your emotional Hellen Keller.
But I am no miracle worker, and you would be better equipped to sense me if you were deaf and blind rather than as you stand before me (or against me) as Narcissus himself.
I catch myself dancing a furious pas-de-deux, alone, interpreting all emotions, feeling for two, phrasing and rephrasing in terms so simple and over-enunciated that even the comatose would wake up from his vegetative state to tell me "quit beating that dead horse, I got it!" and respond accordingly. But, sadly (understatement), a chair makes an effort to listen, empathize, and react appropriately more than you ever could.
It's heavy shit, but true.
Sometimes people fall in love with illusions, and sometimes, in the worst of scenarios, people are intimidated and manipulated into falling in love with illusions.
And then one day, you hit your head hard enough against that same wall, and just like that, you see straight again. The illusion vanishes. And all you're left with is a killer headache and the realization that some mysteries are better left unsolved. Some injustices better left uncorrected. Time better spent alone than reasoning with the unreasonable.
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