I am well aware I am not the force that keeps this Earth spinning. Every time I stub my toe against my bedpost it becomes clear in my head that I’m really just another clumsy girl on this planet. Even I can’t take myself seriously sometimes. I read a lot of news, I watch movies, I read books and every story adds to this huge pool of stories, every small pebble has a story and you keep adding to the stories you’ve heard. Sometimes your plotlines intersect and then separate somewhere. In our heads it all makes sense.
I’ve particularly enjoyed certain conversations lately where people have begun to generalise their experiences assuming everybody has had such experiences. I feel as if conversations have become more one-way lately. Are we really interested in hearing what others say? We look for a moment where we can cut in and make it about us.
There comes a point in everyone’s life where they wonder whether what they’re doing and whether their lives really matter. Circumstances and our journeys lead us along the paths we take. From fantasy to reality, it’s a long winding journey. During this journey we change course, we try to simplify and find ourselves somewhere very different from where we thought we’d be. It’s not necessarily a bad thing.
We think we matter because sometime back someone told us we mattered, it could have been anyone. Only much later do we consider the fact that we matter to ourselves. It takes a while. Once we start living for ourselves there’s no turning back, completely independent. But we fall back down those rabbit holes where we wonder why there’s no one by our sides in those moments.
With or without me I don’t know what difference it makes. I used to tell people not to count on me because at some level I didn’t count on myself to live up to their expectations. When it comes to people I’ve never been able to hold on to them, I guess it’s because when it gets too overwhelming I find it difficult to put in more effort. My first reaction to anything is flight. I can never trust how important I am to people. I am afraid of proximity and of expressing emotions. It comes from a place of feeling unimportant. I feel like everyone in this world could live without me.
In a way I’ve always felt invisible, that part of me no one gets to see, I’ve forgotten that person. Whatever I am is an external hologram without the vulnerabilities of what lies behind all of this. With or without me what difference does it make? Honesty and who you are, are not necessarily the same thing. I can be honest and not be me.
I suppose we all live just because we were born. Now as I see so much news of people who I thought were something and then suddenly they come out with these dark secrets that change my perception of them. I suppose this was coming. There is something very sinister in the way we live our lives. We’re made of layers and layers of secrets and more secrets. We meet people hoping they’re more sorted than we are, and then slowly unpackaging it we find they have different issues and are hoping we can help them.
Every day we add one more day to our existence and believe that we are part of something bigger than us. Even though we want to lead respectable lives we make mistakes and hope someday we can make up for those. I keep telling myself that one day I’ll matter, that there’ll be something in my life I’m truly going to live for.
We all know tomorrow will still happen even if we cease to exist. The universe isn’t our playground. We’re like pawns, just trying to escape or face our destiny. Some of us are running away and some of us are running towards. As I see it, there’s not much of an impact we make in our daily lives.
I know people who play up every little detail in their lives beyond proportions and I can’t help smiling when they do that. I just let them have their moment who am I to judge? Social media has made this more apparent. What is the idea behind an Instagram story or a Facebook story? What happens in our day that is so different from what happens in others lives? Boomerangs, filters, there is so much we can say and in so many different ways. In fact, social media makes us want to believe we’re important.
I am not complaining, I’ve made use of social media to communicate and for fun. But the more I look at my accounts and see what I have put up I realise I’ve only made myself more invisible. I’m there somewhere lost in those posts and captions, hiding behind sceneries and adventures, finding comfort with associations and my small achievements. Every time I put up a picture or add to my story only when I have fewer pimples or when my hair isn’t messy I lose a bit of myself and decide the real me isn’t worth it.
This is the world we live in, a hyperreality. We’re bombarded with moments from people’s lives, lost in numbers and statistics. We’re there somewhere on someone’s list not as a memory but as a number. We’re a collective, getting lost in aspirations, and constantly fearing our own irrelevance. With or without us.