To all those concerned about my recent disappearance, do not worry, I haven't grown narcissist. It's just that I realized that with my online disappearance, there was something else that had disappeared a long time ago, something I have been trying to erase with premeditation. My face.
It came to me as sudden awakening one usual day on the train, after many dazy nights dedicated to study and busy days committed to my both equally important jobs.
We have abandoned our faces, let them leave us embarrassed, and we've grown apart from them, like estranged family members. We don't look at them, we don't study them, although they are more ours than anything else, aand they are the last images able to remind us who we are. Our plain selves are not something we want to cultivate, as in comparison with beautiful images surrounding us, we want them to fade, to leave us alone, and stop reminding us of our imperfection. Our faces every morning remind us how unfit we are for the modern market. How do they not comply with the internationally accepted definition of 'the desired', so wanted and so to be chased.
Impossible to reach, the desired turns into hated and we let that hatred target our imperfections, leaving our real faces fragmented and bitty, like pieces of a broken mirror, thrown out, burnt and left to free us from our guilt of not fitting into the high standard.
Our faces, the outdated product of daily casualty, require multiple layers in order to disappear correctly. The first one to be tiredness, a pitiful blanet of grey coverage growing gradually through overwhelming days like thick shields to protect us from invisible attacks. The second one is a digital finger of carefully retouched images, spread thoroughly with our gentle fingertips. And the third one, a silent coward, is a defiance, defiance of fading away and being outplayed, outshadowed, forgotten, defiance of muted being covered by shields it did not acqquire and did not accept. These shields are traps carrying us through nights and days, making us aspire to the part of colourful magazine, so we can shine through glass sheets of invisible distance to ourselves, until this distance is nothing but contempt. And contempt is always colour blind.
Impossible to reach, the desired turns into hated and we let that hatred target our imperfections, leaving our real faces fragmented and bitty, like pieces of a broken mirror, thrown out, burnt and left to free us from our guilt of not fitting into the high standard.
Our faces, the outdated product of daily casualty, require multiple layers in order to disappear correctly. The first one to be tiredness, a pitiful blanet of grey coverage growing gradually through overwhelming days like thick shields to protect us from invisible attacks. The second one is a digital finger of carefully retouched images, spread thoroughly with our gentle fingertips. And the third one, a silent coward, is a defiance, defiance of fading away and being outplayed, outshadowed, forgotten, defiance of muted being covered by shields it did not acqquire and did not accept. These shields are traps carrying us through nights and days, making us aspire to the part of colourful magazine, so we can shine through glass sheets of invisible distance to ourselves, until this distance is nothing but contempt. And contempt is always colour blind.
No comments:
Post a Comment