top of page

She hurts me in the way she flirts with me. Just an anomaly, out of focus on the periphery. She hurts me with who she has to be, because she will never be with me. She will never be, she is just a dream.

I have dreams, like everyone has dreams….sad depictions of the unobtainable. I am who I am and she, the idyllic her, is who she is. A representation of the perfect, in quotes, the manifestation of what is supposed to be perfection. Once airbrushed, now a digital amalgamation, the ultimate creation. She is but a whim of the insecurity of man. She is fiction.

But the someone her, surrounded by the same magazines, movies and Internet of things, she is subject to that same gaze, the self-unobtainable and the search to obtain that which is unreal.

This is the same story, him to her, her to him, her to her, him to him.

bottom of page