I haven’t been able to write anything lately. Lately being a year. I used to really enjoy telling a story, or expressing my thoughts on something, writing was a way I worked things out, tried to make sense of things and connect with people. But now, I feel bad opening up and sharing my human experience. The internet has become content overload, a polarizing space where every viewpoint is extreme, lines are drawn and sides are taken, and people’s judgements are all drowning each other out in an attempt to lead the circus. I don’t really know how to digest any of it in a positive or constructive way. It’s caused me to overanalyze and question my own intention and point of view to the point of silencing my own voice. It seems smarter to just shut up, leave the internet behind, and vanish out of all newsfeeds or internet browsers. Live in selfish, blissful ignorance in an attempt at self preservation. Die knowing that you did your part for society- you gave everyone the gift of keeping all your thoughts, opinions and selfies to yourself. You won’t have to trouble yourself with muting me on Instagram, I have muted myself. I am a hero.
But writers write to share their stories, knowing it’s not their right to interpret them for other people who happen to read them, but more to surrender their stories to others. Offer them to others like you would give your hand to someone else to hold. Writing this blog was a huge part of how I shared my life with my family and friends. But now I worry. It feels as though if you’re going to create, say and post anything anywhere it needs to carry clout, not to mention be meticulously proof read. Everything is curated. People are either a mess or flawless. To participate feels like joining a conversation I’m going to drown in. Sharing now feels like a catalyst of everything I want to stray far away from. Insincerity, rage, superficiality, self-righteousness, narcissism. Ulterior motives covered by a platform that create a stage to compare, or show off, or cry for help in front of an audience. But the audience doesn’t want to listen, relate, understand, or forgive. The audience is searching for error, waiting to fire judgements and pick you apart, not find themselves in you and discover a common ground. An audience obsessed with tragedy, or others painful, vulnerable moments, willing and eager to separate people into “good” and “bad” and either glorify or vilify people. I’ve noticed myself doing that more and I don’t know why. I used to be enchanted by, and welcome all sorts of characters into my life with open arms, knowing that people are both bad and good. I could leave a bad situation wiser and somehow with more courage. I could forgive easier, myself and the world. Now, I’m scared of others more than anything else. I don’t look at people as deep and beautiful vessels that I am lucky to be around and who I can learn from and be inspired by. I don’t see their flaws as vital pieces of their identity and strength anymore. It’s like a piece of my spine is missing.
There’s a bench across the street from my apartment. Instead of an advertisement sprawled across the back, it carries the message “Everyone is going through something.” It’s a message that should be sprawled everywhere, and I’m glad someone put it on a physical object people encounter when they are out and about in real life. Life is so hard, and it is for absolutely everyone, no one gets a break no matter what. It’s the only universal truth, and all the voices screaming into the internet only prove it more.
Timshel 