Who Loves The Sun?

It is not sad that the idea of me is lovable and I am not. What is sad is that i cannot become the idea. I cannot shuffle off my imperfect flesh (so like a great, sweating rat), my neat collection of flaws, the monotony of days, the way anyone is indefinably annoying when you live with them. I cannot transcend these things and become an idea.

If I could, if I were just a fantasy, then I would never get lonely or hungry or sick. I would never be unappealing or ordinary or invisible like furniture that you see everyday but never notice. As a collection of memories that are less about what actually happened and more about how you think you felt - I could be really enchanting.

If I were only these songs that remind you of me and misremembered images and inside jokes and the way seeing hello kitty feels now, if I was just all of these things strung together maybe I could be happy. If I could be just an idea and not a person who has to go on waking up as an imitation of an imagined self maybe I could be really happy. 

Because being desirable and lovable and fuckable is what is most important in life, isn't it?