ode to the history of love.

how am i allowed to be alive? how is anybody allowed to be alive when this..this transfixing thing exists? the existing words are too ugly and too worthless to express what can anybody feel after meeting this being. why am i allowed to breath after all these lives that i have lived and after all these deaths that i have died? why can't i feel more? why can't i say more? why can't i say anything about this excruciatingly beautiful, tragic, made-up universe? 

but i'm such a fool. i am the one that's made-up. now that i see it, all i can do is look at my made-up face in a made-up mirror and laugh in a very made-up way. we are the imaginary world, not this paper treasure. we feed on the real world. we like to "read" about it. yes, "read", another word invented by someone greater than us. that's what we are. that's the point of it all. don't you know? the fabric of our universe is made out of tears. we are made out of tears and paper cuts.