Part I.
I have found many roads on which I am coated in the softness of being human. There is something miraculous about being tucked away into love, infatuation, obsession, or whatever that state of being deeply affected is called by a job, person, or color. I think fondly of being deeply affected. I abstained from praying for perfection in love, life, and work. I wanted to stumble across moments and find it in the strangest places, like finding a pearl; I wanted to see it in faces, especially in others, and learn how to love people and things that weren’t made for me—the joys in my life to be a mosaic of moments brought to life. I wanted to rest knowing I looked, loved, and lived along the way. In that “living,” a sensitivity that brings pleasure and pain but, most of all, sureness. I want not just to ask as my grandmother did and wait for the signs of a perfect life but for the ideal equation of actions, words, and steps. My desire, or at least what I know of my desires, wasn’t ever for a destination but rather a journey—a well-educated life.
I guess collecting pieces along the shore of myself in the ocean of others. My wit came from missing something or someone, my courage from crying, my taste from a few teens I saw when I was twelve, and my confidence from every time I proved myself or someone wrong. The whiplash of these moments echoed everything I grew to love about myself.
Part II.
What I could articulate in most parts of my soul amounted to the same rattle as a cross-country cargo truck that has traversed many regions yet to deliver everything. This rattle sharpened on iridescent nights as red glows harshly splashed against trees lining empty streets. A thought that found me instead hauntedtine walks regar me on these roudless of location or season, was the acknowledgment of the incompleteness in my life, which I wanted to be filled. Fill. Fill in how the word fills the mouth when spoken, but what should it be full of? Fullness itself? I often impulsively filled my life and mouth with silence, so much so that my silence conveyed what needed to be heard most—the unknowing of what needed to be said most underscored this sense of halfness. I never know what to say, primarily what to write, how I feel in hindsight, so dormant that it causes an acute blunt pain. I had not been trained, if one could be trained in such a way, in the womanly charm, of saying so tiny that you almost close a door but leave it unlocked for exploration—a double speak of silence and sound. I felt that my unawareness of this way was all I had left of my childhood, and for some reason, I had no desire to shed this childlike disposition. And with that awareness, I suppose—dare say, almost in protest, if only to myself—to let curiosity predominantly guide my mouth and limbs filled with restlessness, satisfaction, and often silence.
Part III.
My friends do all sorts of things to fill up their lives. Speeding down streets slackened with rain. When I was a little less aware of what kind of life I wanted, we shared a sense of carelessness. There was a feeling; I didn’t have the patience to find the word floating in the air, and it fell to the streets, mimicking rain in these times. All this wetness, all this calm air, glittering streets, rushing cars, fun parties, I think, celebration and escape in the same outfit.
My coworker once told me we must not mention "happiness". I find, without mention, it sees different hues and depths, as do the definitions of aloneness shift. Melancholic is what I often describe myself as, due to the fact that I wish to be tucked away in a place not divorced from life but of sound, deep, powdery, and filled with comforting shadows, like hiding under a blanket. Some friends have helped me find that through artificial sensations—artifice is not seductive or romantic; it is just stuff to fill time with. I could feel the weariness of that type of life, love, and time dripping down my hands in the heat. I feel as if, at any moment, I could be transformed into some strange creature, unbeknownst to myself and others. Caught between the rapture of who I want to be, who I am, and who I can be. This time had become an assessment of capacities; a test came in blooming the flowers and knives. Self-destruction doesn't feel as seductive as age; power is in resilience, survival, and the simplicity of a well-lived life. I fear I have fallen out of step with the artificial—no more painted stares and strange conversations; no more limp limbs, words, and living.
Part IV. And here is my great revelation:
The most natural of our instincts is to need, but all we do, as informed by the media, is act like we don't need; it’s all need- all of life, isn’t it? It all rests on the need to explore, the need to be felt, and the necessity of pain.
I genuinely want to live as close to the surface of my face as possible.
Franco Bifo Berardi puts it best: "Industrial production puts to work bodies, muscles, and arms. Now, in the sphere of digital technology and cyberculture, exploitation involves the mind, language, and emotions to generate value—while our bodies disappear in front of our computer screens." I think our honest desires disappear, too. What do you think?