Let me pen this down

I want to write, but I don’t want that to mean losing who I am. I don’t network, I am not an influencer, I don’t understand advertising agencies, PR people, communication specialists, marketing campaigns and all of this effort to structure creativity into corporations and offices just to make a dime. Okay, more than a dime, way more, but I still fail to understand. I want to make a living too, but I want to do what I want to do. It  probably seems spoiled and pretentious as everyone has to make compromises in order to make a living, but I feel like I’ve spent so much of my life dreaming of that very distant future where I could finally do what I want to and be who I am that I am struggling to pull that future as close to myself as possible. I don’t want to betray the words that flow through my mind by complying to SEO, keywords or any other shit. I don’t want to lose my authenticity by bowing to brands that sell products I don’t believe in just because they put food on my table and luxury items on my Instagram. I am not that person. I think in words that I find valuable enough to deserve all the respect I have. I don’t want to describe things that others sell but are too disinterested or untalented or busy to explain them to their customers. I don’t want to be glorified for the number of my followers, I want to inspire freedom and happiness.

Then again, every time I ask my parents for money I feel smaller. Every time, I feel the need to prepare a speech so I can explain why I need money again and they don’t even ask me why. Well, sometimes they do ask me, but I think they don’t see it like I do. I think they’re more interested in what I’m doing because they’re just generally interested in my well-being and want to be close to me, but somehow that makes me feel like I have to justify myself every month or every couple of weeks when it’s summer and it’s nice outside and I find myself wanting to be around people and Gin & Tonics more often. And then I see there’s a lot of month left at the end of my “allowance” and I feel guilty for not being creative enough to get discovered. And then I read how other people have struggled and I see them as more talented and more valuable than I see myself as and I feel a little better thinking that maybe someday my time will come too.

Then again, some days it’s a drag to get me out of my pj’s and go outside and be with people. And I gain weight because I don’t burn as many calories as before when I was working and stressing over so many things and walking and sitting at my desk and running errands and hating my life. So, I’m either stressed out and skinny or comfortable and fluffy. But I guess there aren’t many in-betweens in life anyway.

I also don’t want to be appreciated for my parents’ money. All of my friends joke around about how rich I am because my parents give me expensive shit that people aspire to. A lot of people I talk to focus on how expensive my trip to Australia must have been and I’m over here like “Yeah, it took a lot to get me there, but look how much I brought back, how much we can talk about, you can tell me about your trips, I can tell you about mine and we make this beautiful pile of memories of trips and conclude what we got from them and see where that takes us next. And instead of sharing that on our walls we can share it at this table with music and people around and pretty lights and ice in our drinks and then we can walk home and stop on the way for another glass of wine because we are not finished talking. This is what being rich means – to afford the luxury of pleasing yourself with good company and things that are good for your mind.”

Last night my father showed me a picture of some Louis Vuitton boots that were exactly my style – meaning that they looked exactly like all the other boots I have – and I told him they were nice, but I’m currently going through this phase where I want to have less and do more. He nodded his head and then I continued with “In ten years, I’m going to be telling people about what I did in Canada, Australia, the States, France and Russia, not what boots I bought and what logo they had on” and he said I was right. I am currently dreaming of a trip to California and I find myself looking at all the shoes and bags and clothes I have and wonder how many times they could take me to California. Probably a lot of times and that thought makes me very uncomfortable. I need to prevent myself from becoming a person who owns too much and does too little. But the trouble is that, apparently, my parents are more comfortable offering me expensive presents than cash. And they kinda need cash at the plane ticket store.

You see, it’s not all fun and games and no emotional distress even if you can afford all this material shit. I mean, yeah, it’s more comfortable to be miserable in your nice apartment with an amazing view of the good part of the city while you’re well fed, have access to pretty much any information you desire with your Yorkshire Terrier on your lap, but misery is misery. Misery is inside, money is outside. Except for fine drinks and fine dining. I’m not going to be a hypocrite about it, I’d be much more miserable if I were trying to make it as a writer without my parents supporting me financially, I’m just saying that you’re only rich if you feel rich inside and no matter how many numbers you have on your bank statement, you can still feel like shit. And it makes it even worse when people appreciate you just because they know your parents have it good. That is not me, that is them and it’s their own hard work and these are their rewards. I am my own person. And, for now, I am not proving to be very marketable.

But I want to continue to be my own person so I populate my life with as many bits of myself as possible and I focus on not selling out and giving in on Social Media. I want to be able to hug myself at night proud that I spent another day being authentic. I want a voice, but not one that shouts at people on the internet. My voice tells me to unfollow and hide all the stories that make me feel something negative and I listen to it instead of thinking that what people post on the internet is aimed directly at me or is asking for my opinion. I unfollow as a protective shield for my mind because I’m tired of all the unsolicited information I receive online when all I really want to do is look at videos of dogs and people making street food and my friends’ trips and drunken nights. I obsessively hide sponsored posts I’m not interested in and they just never fucking end. I feel we’re at a confused stage where we take everything personally because it’s so close to our faces when we read it on our phones and on our laptops and we were not programed as creatures to handle this technology. We stand as far as possible from people at tables in meetings and on the subway, but we spend so much time with their vacation pictures inches away from our nose.

I walked my dog and left my phone at home just to disconnect even though I’m not constantly checking my phone or chatting. But I feel like I can’t step away from everyone knowing where I fucking am and what I’m fucking doing if my phone is around. So, I walked my dog because I wanted to be with my dog and not with the world and I composed all of this in my head and struggled to hang onto the words because if I don’t write them down quickly they disappear from my head forever. And my words are so precious to me and so intimate, I don’t want them to slip away from me thinking I didn’t want to call them the next day.

A fundraiser tried to stop me at the corner of my building, but I ran from him, I needed to pen this down. I wrote this sitted on the edge of my bed, forgetting to breathe, not blinking, not answering calls.



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