Real Fake

It’s all fake.  All of it.

The colors, the textures, the fabrics, the smells.  On the outside, from a distance, it gives the illusion of sincerity.  It will fool the eye’s casual glance, as the brain fills in the unseen and unfocused details with superior imagination.  But upon closer inspection, the seams show.  The paint peels.  The chrome becomes plastic, the steel becomes wood, the silk becomes starched cotton, and the leather becomes some polymer with a synthetic and unfeeling name.  What seemed to be an authentic relic of ages past with stories to tell was simply fabricated and assembled mere months ago, perhaps even mass-produced with hundreds and hundreds of others just like it.  There is nothing special about it, just like there is nothing special about the other hundreds.

It’s all fake.

But it’s real fake.

You can’t just sweep it under the rug and pretend it doesn’t exist; it exists.  It’s here, and what more, it’s here to stay.  It is accepted in the world, despite its fakeness, perhaps even relished by the world.  Not because of what it is, but because of what it appears to be, and many cannot tell the difference, or choose not to.  They believe in the fakeness, and thus the fakeness becomes real.

And it’s all right.

It’s all right because it’s not the fakeness that matters, it’s the reality.  If the fake were to remain fake, and people were to still believe in it, there would be a problem.  But the fakeness is an imitation of reality, and by imitating it becomes not the reality it is imitating, but a completely different reality of its own; perhaps of less quality, perhaps not, but no less real.  Real memories can be created, real actions performed, despite the fakeness of it all.  The goal should not be to believe that the fake is real, but to accept the fake as fake, and from there appreciate what is really real about it.

 

{In relation to my absence over the past few days, I have yet to decide if I’m going to make up the missed days or not.  Part of me tells me that I should: the part that resolved to write 100 words every day.  And part of me does not:  the part that says it’s not the mechanical slog of writing every day that’s important, but the drive to constantly write.  I was at my first ever very big (at least 20,000 people) convention with friends, and there was just no time to write anything during those days I was gone.  I certainly have enough inspiration from my trip to write for each day I missed.  We’ll see.}

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