Facing reality has always been my most unpalatable responsibility and were it not a necessary burden to attempt to bear to merely survive and play all these hollow games of meaningless repetition that this world incurs, I would have stopped trying many years ago. But survive we must and if in so doing this means we are to trade the comfort of fictional familiarity and topical belief for the shared reality and consensus fiction of some Other and unwanted world, then so be it.
Finding that life was ever and always endemically predisposed towards handing me many more catastrophes and hopeless heartaches than opportunities and selfless happiness, I had always turned inwards and there gazed upon only myself, my thoughts and away from pain and loneliness into the endless seeming freedoms of my own internal darkened room and all those equally lonely places of the mind.
This was never a real freedom, of course, but how often might we all barter cold facts for those convenient fictions that in close and suffocating intimacy provide us comfort as bastions of hope or borders against all our fears of suffering? In the end, and as a cultural as much as a psychological observation, we only ever trade one fiction for another and on each symbolic exchange we always lose a little traction.