Do you know that terrible cliche about life being stranger than fiction?

Why do we hate cliches so much anyways?

Maybe it’s because they tend to express an impossibly to deny truth. One that has to be remembered over and over again.

Life is not like the movies. Life is not stranger than fiction, nor is it fiction. Life’s not art, not for those who make art all their lives, not for those who try to transform their lives into art.

Hedonists, masochists, thrill seekers, drama addicts…

Shallow. Egocentric. Selfish. Eccentric.

Life as a battle. For what you want, for others, for yourself. Against yourself. Against others. The neverending battle between what you feel and what you think. Between what you want and what you need. Between what is and what could be.

The bitter distance between the ash that settles on all that we have lost and the inexorable beauty of all that we can imagine.

The moments that remind us, again and again, that life’s not a movie. Routine, boredom, doubt. Petty frustrations. The gnawing feeling of missing people you haven’t met and place that bear no name.

Day after day of nothing really happening.

Unfinished stories. Unanswered questions. People who leave without saying goodbye.

Life has to make us feel. That’s it. We want to feel. To live. We others to know we have lived.

We want to leave something behind. A mark. A memory. A sensation.

We want life to mean so many things, all at once, that we often abandon the present for the promise of a wonderful future. Or the bitter-sweet comfort of the past.

We want. And this makes us human. A lot more than we’ll ever have the guts to admit.