How do you
explain it?
I don't know. I don't know.
It's somewhere between something learnt and something
grown into.
After-effects of moments ruined by pencil smudges, camera
flashes, the beeps of a recorder, the smile that becomes
mechanical as you wait for the shutter to blink. The
aftermath of boxing up so much of yourself and putting it on
show for everyone — alone, left wondering what you left
for yourself. The aftercare of giving so much of yourself
away to anyone who has the time to take you that in the end,
you are an apartment full of furniture that was bought to be
looked at, not used. You learn, after documenting so much of
your existence, after trying to get people to notice it, that
in the end, it's not fun. It's not rewarding.
It's alarming and scary and... it makes you feel
poor.
It's also collecting as you go, when you're walking
and you carry your luggage like a trophy, your baggage like a
ballchain, your memories like a parasol against a too-hot
sun, your scars like a jacket against the cold. You exist in
more than just the moment. And that only comes with time;
that comes after having friends come and go, and then meeting
someone who might never know how your heart broke but still
ends up close to you. It's meeting new people, talking
about everything that's important to you, without
bringing up childhood trauma or I wish, I wish, I wish.
There's so much of you —
you don't fit in any boxes anymore.
There's too much to show that it's
impossible. Practically, pragmatiaclly, sensibly,
realistically, you can't show everyone all of you,
because you
are
so
rich.
So you start to think more about what you do
want to share, and what parts you do want the
world to know about. What videos will you record? What
journal entries will you write? What songs will you
recommend? What books will you read? What stories will you
tell? Which stories will you share?
(it's exciting, it's exciting, it's
big and small and part of you, and it's
exciting)