I’ve always hated Romeo and Juliet. The tale of two star crossed lovers kept apart by external circumstances, a world fighting to keep their love apart.
I hate it for a number of reasons, but mostly because of jealousy.
When will I ever meet someone who will defy her family and logic to be with me? The goddess who will let me enjoy all the sweet nectar she has to offer, even after I kill her loved and respected brother? The love that will sacrifice everything for a chance to ride with me into an unsure sunset?
Because that’s not the way it works. That’s not the story that plays out in real life. The story gets lost in the daily grind, the beliefs and perspectives of others. It warps and changes, begins to think of itself as Hamlet or Macbeth. The actors forget their lines and play out the wrong scene too early or too late. And when you recast the roles, rewrite the script, and alter the backgrounds, you become just as guilty as the rest of ruining a simple work of great literature. The crowds stop coming and you’re reduced to acting out all the roles yourself. You fall in love with yourself. You bite your thumb at thee. You kill your best friend. You kill your brother in a blind rage. You fuck yourself. You pretend your dead. You kill yourself. And you kill yourself again because your love has died. No one laughs at the melodrama. No one cries at the tragedy. No one applauds your performance.
Bitter and alone in an empty room. Only you can appreciate your efforts and only you can curse your failures. You thought you could out do a great playwright by imitating his work and you end up with nothing to show for it.
I’m jealous that such an overly simplistic yet beautiful tale could even be conceived in a man’s mind. And I’m jealous that I can’t emulate it. I’m jealous that I can’t even find a decent Juliet so I can tragically die in her arms. I’m jealous that real life never fucking works that way.