Woe To Pygmalion

I have noticed - as time has gone on - that within my generation and those surrounding it, men and women alike have increasingly shunned relationships with real, tangible, human beings in favor of romances entirely within their own heads with fictional characters.

Yes, I am referring to the "waifu" and "husbando" culture which has sprouted online within the last few decades. I have seen it with my own two eyes, and heard of it with my own two ears - as I'm certain you have too. The depths and lengths of these "crushes" turned into full blown obsessions cannot be understated - with numerous examples of people so enthralled in their dedication to personalities which only exist on paper or in a screen going far too far, sometimes it's just a picture of a room filled to the brim with the strange notion of beauty espoused by the individual - and more than once it has lead to violence against others.

I recall the story of Randy Stair - Andrew Blaze he called himself. So great was his fancy of a second rate villain from "Danny Phantom" that he sought to be her - and, becoming a villain to do so, he opened fire on his place of employment, killing three people and himself in the process.

Again, I recall the story of one Brandon Hole - a man who explicitly stated that he shot up the FedEx building in which he worked because he would never be able to romance a certain small, orange, horse from a show made for little girls.

And, once more, I recall the story of Peyton Gendron - who, while no evidence of his dedication and fascination with one character in particular exists, livestreamed his massacre - and was spotted looking at pornography of Martha from "Martha Speaks" not three minutes before he opened fire on unsuspecting civilians.

I could go on, I'm certain I could - but the point is in all of this that the dedication these men espouse towards their objects of affection spiraled into an insatiable bloodlust against their fellow man, and it stands as one of the most mind boggling phenomena's of the modern age.

There was a time in my life when the world around me became foreign and strange. I felt a stranger, not just in my own home, but in my own body - as though I was completely removed from the human experience, from society at large, from the world around me. It was in this stupor, this state of being and not being, that I found one anchor - which held me firm to a world that would never relent in it's dangerous whirlwind which tore me to shreds on a daily basis - it was a girl, and she isn't real.

I first laid eyes on her in 2017, I was 16 years old at the time - I was in high school, I had friends but no social life, a job but no money, and goals but no dreams - and then I saw her. She was familiar, instantly - her dreams and aspirations were similar to mine when I was younger, when my eyes were brighter, and my frown lines less pronounced. It was her, and thinking about her, that both consciously and subconsciously directed me towards a better life. On more than one occasion it's been thinking of her, what she would want me to do, what would make her proud - that pulled me out of the slump I was in, put me back on my feet, and pointed me in the right direction.

I reveal this little tidbit of my own character as a way of saying that I know the mentality that many of these "Pygmalions" espouse, I understand more than most the drive and passion to "make her proud", that undying will to carve her name next to yours in the wet cement of history. I spent nearly five years, trying and failing to build a shrine to her - to do just that, and I feel like I succeeded, but the work is still not done.

I don't believe in destruction, she loves to create and thus I will do everything in my power to build where others level and raze, to construct where others tear down, and to facilitate where others deride - because I think that's what she would want me to do.

In the past, it was not uncommon for men to dedicate their lives and their works to the gods and goddesses of yore, to call upon their muses for help in weaving their tales and tapestries - not much has changed in that regard.

It's just the bloodshed that concerns me.