Ideal

V,

Thinks have taken a twist the past few days. When I thought I was freely writing, I was mistaken. Writing to you started becoming shaping an ideal, an ideal image of myself I want to feed you with. Ideal. Perfect.

I have long been marred, and I have long wanted to cover that. I was ashamed of it, of the err and the imperfection. And I was a coward not to admit so. Instead, I am still living in my fantasy world of masks and surrealism. Blind ideals, misguided principles, wrong intentions.

There is this tug of war within. I could not easily give up this want to strive for perfection. But it is day after more and more seemingly impossible.

Do I still write for you? Or do I write just to give myself a sense of security? Are we on similar ground, or am I making our floor muddy and covering it with blood?

What am I trying to say? I am weak Vince. I am not perfect. And I act otherwise, and I impose that ideal on others. Hoping they would see the veil, that they would figure it out.

Maybe you already did. That I think ideally. Maybe you do not.

Will anyone ever will? Would anyone ever have, unless I said so?

But I will have to go on with life, hoping that tomorrow would be better. Always hoping. Always idealizing. Always. Perhaps.