PARADOX

7:34 P.M.—in front of the fridge, considering devouring an entire watermelon in one sitting

I regret everything.

But for this endeavour of mine to work, for those Diaries to Jupiter to make sense, authenticity is of the essence.

So let me be authentic.

Let me be truthful.

To even think that one person has read my previous entry makes me want to puke.

There. I said it. Now the cat is out of the bag and on the couch, making confetti with one of the armrests.

But why is being perceived such a risk?

With the way we have grown to hide under filters and pseudonyms, job titles and perfect pictures, the act of concealing has become second-nature to the human race. We curate ourselves, our appearances from head to toes, from thighs to belly to cheekbones. We rearrange our existences within a pixel of perfection before displaying our day-to-day life in a museum of mirrors, allowing strangers in, yes, but not before choosing the lighting in which we’ll tolerate being perceived. We turn memories into still lifes. We stage our reactions, clothe our emotions with the season's latest fashion, hoping to satisfy the theatre of relevance and obtain a seat at our own representation.

We hoard likes like gold coins, followers like gemstones, never having enough of either yet being all-too-eager to watch someone else lose theirs. We dispense judgment. We worship notability.

We long to be discovered, but can’t stand to be seen.

Oh, the irony.

In our day and age, authenticity is celebrated—when sold.

It is applauded when wrapped in shades of viral vulnerability: a few pimples exposed here and there; one scar, then another, maybe a wrinkle; a roll of fat and a flash of cellulite; a confession of social inadequacy; a mental breakdown on live TV. A long list of pre-approved subjects meant to create community and attained through scripted acts of fragility.

The people yearn for belonging, whilst continuously running away from it. We keep things surface-level. We keep things pretty. We keep things digestible.

But connection can only happen through complete exposure of the self.

What—where is the true self when 21st-century Individualities™️ are sold like figurines meant to be exposed on our Windowsill, then thrown in the trash when a new, shinier one arrives?

Where is the true self when trends change with the flick of a wand, sometimes from week to week, first needing to be approved by the masses, then promoted by Cash-grab Industries?

Where is the self when Individualities are no longer based on pursuits of passion and acts of self-expression, but daily autopsies of the latest fashion, having us quantify, dissect, and improve our Singularity in order to access the objects—the tokens linked to it?

We used to find those tokens and build our Singularity around them, finding resonance, fuelling the discovery of the true self, putting them on display around our House, acquiring new ones or getting rid of older versions when the time came for the natural moulting accompanying growth.

Be it from a series of books in teenage-hood, to a boy band, films with swords of light and pointy ears, eccentric dolls, video games, TV Shows, sports—we used to belong to others rather than to tokens and trends.

Now, we express our Singularity through consumption.

In our day and age, authenticity is celebrated when sold.

But selling something is hard.

Selling yourself is harder.

Selling yourself while remaining authentic is masochism.

See, Authenticity is not a single child. She has a sister, a twin in everything but in name. That sister is Vulnerability.

And she is one scary bitch.

In the living room of my childhood, Vulnerability was rarely invited. We knew of her name, had seen a picture or two of her face. An empty plate was left for her in the kitchen, filled only for a few sparse occasions, oftentimes resulting from months, if not years, of emotional seclusion, finally boiling up to a familial crash out. After a few barbed insults, angry tears and tight lips, Vulnerability would make her great entrance, tone light but steps heavy, and stare you in the eye until you gave her nuggets of emotions (rage! pain! pride! disappointment! shame!) in exchange for reconciliation. Then, she would leave, and we would pretend she had never been here, throwing her business card in the trash and opening the windows wide open to dispel her saccharine perfume.

Vulnerability would come back. She always did. And she would leave again.

And the plate would remain in the kitchen, empty except for a few stains of ketchup and regrets.

Authenticity, I’m not quite acquainted with. Vulnerability, I flee from.

But regrets, I know of.

Regrets, I carry from a lack of vulnerability… Or moments of absolute authenticity.

Regrets are one thing. They follow a simple logic, like Newton’s Third Law of actions and reactions—oh, what a big brain term.

You text your ex; they leave you on read. Regrets. Bleaching your hair roots first (been there) and having no toner (done that). Regrets. Coming out of jail, recruiting ten miscellaneous and mischievous experts and planning the biggest heist ever to reconquer your ex-wife and ruin her new beau, only for her to—well, that’s the plot of Ocean’s 11.

Regrets are natural. They are more natural than the spectacle of smoke and mirrors we put on for the world at our fingertips.

I have regrets starting this blog.

It demands of me discipline. It demands of me accountability. It demands of me authenticity. My Holy Trinity of Ennui.

Of course, I could always take this blog down. It took me a month to get the idea for it and turn it into a tangible thing; I could make it disappear in two clicks—four max. No one would be any the wiser. I would conquer the regrets. I would change my address so Authenticity and her bitch sister might not find me again. I would smash that plate, coloured ketchup red.

I would be free.

I would be stranded.

Isolated. Haunted by the whispers of “What If?” and stalked by shame. How can you go on and go far when you long to be seen yet refuse to reveal yourself? What is the point of dreaming if it means staying asleep?

I’m a pendulum, always swinging back and forth.

I am made of celestial dust. I am a walking corpse, slowly rotting away. I have gold at the tips of my fingers. I am a mime cursed to perform for its mirror. I am meant for great things. I’d rather people not know my full name, except for my banker. I am destined for a life of glory. I’m quite certain that never leaving my hometown is what I’m supposed to do.

Can we pretend that I never wrote anything? Even better! Could you pretend you never read anything of mine? Let’s go back to what once was: a state of perfect, practised passivity.

Yes. That is the answer to regrets.

Is it, though?

I have regrets starting this blog, and I have not.

Putting yourself out there is not an easy thing to do. If it were, the world would be brimming with authenticity; parents, yours and mine, would likely never have met, each having pursued the call of their heart, and I wouldn’t have been born to write these words, nor would you have been to read them. Putting yourself out there is daunting. It’s raw. It’s messy. It’s like being dared to climb the highest diving board and stand with five toes off the edge, five toes in. It’s having to walk up to that person and present your bloodied heart, praying they’ll take it—hoping they won’t. It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating. It’s chaos. It’s growth. It’s a shit show.

It’s life.

I’m a pendulum, swinging back and forth. Mobile but immobile.

I am the regret, the remorse; I am the daring.

I am the maiden cloaked in chainmail and bathed in embers; I am the knight dubbed by a sword of velvet and anointed in violets.   

I am determined to be seen; I will make it everyone’s problem when I am.

I am a paradox.