People

People are a strange thing indeed. There are always multiple variations of the same person, which exist within themselves; also several variations that exist within others. There is the person that you see, and interact with. And then there is the one that exists in their absence, the impression they leave behind. And these two rarely are one and the same. Why is it so, I wonder? I guess this is part of the reason why love towards another being can exist, whether it be platonic or romantic, or a mixture of the two. You speak with someone, then interpret their actions, words. An image forms, which may or may not wholly depict the truth of their nature. And based on that, within us It starts to grow. The more time passes, the more we get used to their presence the stronger It becomes, until at some point we might even reach a point where removal of It would render us crippled. Yet we always seek It, desire It, never doubting that such constriction would bring happines in the end. However often we are mistaken. It rips, we break, and a hole is left behind. It might be as small as a pinhole through a blank sheet of paper, and it might be as large as the hole a car leaves behind when driving through a wall. Yet life flows on. We live. We die. And nothing really changes.