“At any stage of your career, the critic in your head could express their opinion. Repeating that you are not talented enough. Your idea is not good enough. Art is not a valuable investment of your time. The result will not be well received. You are a failure.“
Why should it be humiliating!?
Because it is always one-sided. And so, you feel humiliated.
It’s like licking your favorite ice cream through a glass.
You see it – creamy, gorgeous, promising happiness.
Your receptors wake up, your brain sends signals: “Mmm, delicious!”
But… there is no taste.
There is nothing. Just glass and saliva on the glass.
An illusion. Stretched and pathetic.
You want to get closer, rub your nose against the soft skin of his neck.
And you do.
(In your mind, of course. Where else?)
It turns out that you closed your eyes, and all this is happening only there – in your head.
The whole scene – body to body, breath on skin, that careless laughter you fell in love with – a full-fledged Hollywood production (or soap opera) with special effects of lack.
The budget – zero.
The script – painfully lonely.
The director – yourself.
The cameraman – self-deception.
They say that consciousness does not distinguish between imagination and reality.
Maybe.
Rather – you live in a parallel reality.
With a rented apartment in the illusion.
What can show you which reality you are in
is a back-turn.
The words said to hurt you.
The silence after every attempt to say “Hello”.
(Hello – such a small word, but it sounds like an attempt at CPR on a dead body.)
And yes – then that voice appears in your ears.
Not the gentle one you want to hear.
But the one, the inner one, in the voice of a mean aunt at a funeral:
– He doesn’t want you.
– He’s not for you.
– You’ve had enough of illusions.
You want to silence it, slap it and crush it with your hand, as if you were killing a fly on glass.
Because it’s ruining your plot.
You know it’s telling the truth – but you drown it in lies, that maybe after all…
But no.
Youth doesn’t send you messages.
Old age doesn’t return calls.
Youth walks past you in sneakers without socks and laughter in their eyes – and doesn’t even notice you.
Old strips the last piece of clothing off your back – without imagination, without tenderness, straight with its teeth.
And you stand there – hungry, crazy, and in love –
with your face pressed against the glass of something that was never meant for you.
But at least the ice cream is beautiful.
And the calories are just emotional.