The Betweeners

Our culture is melancholy for the days that were never theirs, nostalgia dripping from every perfectly diminished Polaroid picture. Our culture wants to live the life of luxury, fame, wealth, but we crave the life of love and two bit camera tricks. We want the world to mean so much more than it does -- a 500 Days of Summer syndrome between nature and humanity.

We want summer nights driving in the car to the soft melodies of star's music, looking up to the pitch black sky to try and find the source of such longing. We live between the happy moments and the sad, the calm and the adventure, somehow between yet not accomplishing either.

Our culture longs for the things they don't have. The warm nights with lovers never quite lovely enough for the taste of a romantic, too intimate for the independent. Where is the line drawn? It surely must be dotted because we've fallen through the cracks without a map to lead us home again. The minotaur knows no sorrow compared to the labyrinth we must maneuver to reach our goal. The sphinx knows no riddle like that of the human condition.

We are contradictory. We leave behind that which is meaningful in order to feel meaning, yet desire those we've left or lost. We want to feel the anchor drop upon finding the photo of a long lost friend, the edges frayed, the filtered photo fading away, losing its inhabitants. Yet no such photo exists. It never has. Our photos are yet incomplete, and that is the feeling we are in search of. To feel incomplete. To be alive, to be loving, to be lost and lonely and craving, to be wishful, is to be incomplete.

Our culture is lustful
Our culture is lost
Our culture is longing
We are joyous
We are wistful
We are found

We are gone
We are between.