Why We Love Zombies

Hello, you.

It's been a long time since we've talked... well, since I've talked.

I'm starting to realize that like God, you aren't actually out there.

I'm starting to realize that I'm alone in all this, that you won't show up and make it all better.  Oh sure, there'll be imposters and place-holders... bad ideas out of desperation, maybe even a gold-digger or two.

But you... You're not real.

You're just as unreal as freedom and justice. You're just as unreal as Utopia: "no place," if you translate the Latin.

What I've got before me as options are just that: options.  Choices.

That's what this world really is, isn't it? A series of options, half-fulfilled promises, improvisations, make-dos.

Do you know how angry that makes me?  Do you know how bitter I've become and how hard it is to hide it?  How I've stopped caring?

No job, no friends, no life?  Nothing.  Do you know what I do to sustain myself?  Do you know what distractions, HOW MANY DISTRACTIONS I have needed?

You... You are not real.  Why am I even talking to you?

And I realize: I've gone insane.  I'm Rick on the telephone.  I'm Michonne talking to the air: I've taken off your arms, your jaw, so you can't hurt me any more but I can't let go of you, I can't let you die just yet, so I take you with me on chains.

And I... I want to let you go.  I want to treat you like the zombie you are, this lifeless automaton craving to eat me alive... but I can't. Goddamnit, I still LOVE you.  I've moved on in so many other ways, but for the life of me I can't let go of you.

Not yet.  Not yet, at least.

I can't way until you are gone, until I can decapitate you without a second's thought.

I look forward to that day.

You fuck.