I am devoid of individuality
Devoid of an identify
Falling through the black infinity
Grasping for what they want to see
It was the latest copy of Cereal magazine. Or was it my reading of ‘The Yellow Wall-paper’? Perhaps it was the unconventional appearance of the two in the same period, the effects of which have left me very stripped. Perpetual questioning of our existence is human nature, but identity? As soon as I find myself sitting down with a character I understand—that character being my own—I find cracks. Each crack refracts light in that annoying way, the way that snatches even the most wandering of eyes and beats down onto their satisfaction with the current situation. A crack is an inconsistency or a flaw; something that does not fit.
I do not like things to be centred on my desktop anymore, but opened at off-set points along an invisible Cartesian plane. Comfort is no longer found at (0,0) but instead the peculiar points in-between. I want to live on the East coast of Canada—summer heat, soft breeze, sharp water—when I am older. My white walls and black furniture irritate me; my only solace lies in an antique wooden chair with metal-wire supports, piles of magazines and an antique painting of unknown origin. Unfollowed are the minimalists, replaced with the realists. Bright colour gives way to muted tones, dark corners and warm afternoons. Perhaps it is the spring, or maybe leaving college for home, but that leaves no foundation for resistance to sit.
While I talk garrulously there is a substance to my writing: Our identities do not die, but moult as they age and our tendencies, whims, loathings, nightmares and daydreams, values or perspectives metamorphose. We can stand aloof of this process, allowing for external aggressors to snip and prune, or we can give no acquiescence to the matters that unfold. Read longer, run faster, dream deeper. Vehemently claw at what you stand for: Does it stand?
A few weeks ago Daniela and I meandered the suburbs. I captured this beautiful house which reminded me of a Mediterranean vineyard, overlooking the sea in quiet movement. I tried the limited-edition Starbucks birthday Frappuccino which was softly delightful, though I am trying to cut back on my sugary intake. The interior of Starbucks, captured in black and white, felt very old-world for once. Even one’s opinion of an interior can change with time.