Killing Luke Skywalker

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Imagine hanging out in a bar with Luke Skywalker. He starts talking to the one lady you've been getting to know. From across the room she seems to be having a great time. In an instant, something swells. Is it jealousy? No, because you've been watching her chat with other guys all night. What you feel is futility.

It isn't a foreign thing to you. You've nursed this emotion before. No words or actions are good enough to penetrate or diffuse the situation. You can't find yourself. You watch their interaction: the somatic components of Jedi Mind Tricks are familiar. That's it for you. You're done.

You approach with the intention of excusing yourself for the evening. Frustration has another plan: scream and flip a chair. If you weren't done before, you are now. You're out the door in an instant and down the street. Unfortunately, you don't know where you are. Your head fills with the whispers of the people still inside – those left to witness the spoils of a perceived act of madness. The things they whisper aren't anything you haven't said to yourself. It echoes the self-loathing.

In the street you piss and moan about this and that, but none of it's true. You may think it is at the moment, you may even harbor it as some sort of half-assed philosophy. In your heart you know the truth. You deflect the affections of those showing concern. You posture that you don't give a fuck, that you want to be left alone with your thoughts. It is almost true. That is the futility. You can't compete with Luke Skywalker. His powers are too great. His game is too well-crafted.

The moment dissolves. The girl you spoke to is gone. The idea of not seeing her again stings (it is rare that you make that sort of connection). She wants to know what the fuck just happened. So does everyone else. (So do you.) You give reasons from the surface. The real catalyst is deeper and uglier. Either way, this is you: the one that flips chairs and storms off like a fuckhead. That is what she saw. That is what she will remember. You have to believe it was done on purpose: a moment created by the subconscious because you liked her, to save you from pain later.

Sobering up, you are approached by Luke Skywalker. He is afraid he pissed you off and apologizes. In this moment you realize this is not a man with mystical powers. This is a decent guy just wanting to make new friends. You tell him the outburst had nothing to do with him. He doesn't seem to believe you. It makes you feel worse. Here's a guy apologizing for something he didn't even do, just because you're empty enough to believe such things occur – that you, in a few moments, can have your affections and bravado usurped by someone you consider to be more desirable. You have manufactured inferiority and sold it well.

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