I have a profound sense of admiration for women who can express their sexuality and individuality with class and personality – like @devilette, @nymphae.uk, @yusara_circus and @creepyyeha amongst countless others. They possess what I hopelessly yet ambivalently long and strive for, and much more.
Of these 10 years, what little recollection that I have of the past sums up to at best 6 months worth of memories, if I were to be generous. With the aid of journals, posts and images – that goes up to maybe 4 years worth of memories, if I were to be optimistic. It’s not that I’m especially fond of or proud of my life (or maybe I am) – but that if left undocumented, it would cease to exist as far as I am aware. I mean – if you have no memory of an event, how do you know it happened? If you don’t recall the contents of the life you supposedly lead, did you really live it? I admit, my compulsion to religiously log my daily activities is excessive, but it placates my insatiable need to know.
Only if you, too, suffered from dissociative amnesia of sorts, would you understand the echoing hollowness left behind by the cavity which should’ve been a memory. After all, we are a product of our experiences, or how we remember them, are we not? That which we retain as memories, that progressively shape and influence our rationale and choices. Without the memories, without these invaluable souvenirs of our past, core structures, without evidence of having lived – how can you convince yourself that you had truly lived? What proof is there that you are, indeed, alive and present? How can you grow if you are forever where you started?
I still write, capture and create – I still try to maintain my tendency to capture and archive seemingly innocuous tidbits of life that seem perhaps mundane or extraordinary. Extraordinary as in extra-ordinary: maybe “too ordinary” – snapshots of a corner of the desk I spent my days, logs of sleeping and eating habits… it may seem odd or peculiar, but it is from these that I reassure myself I will be able to reconstruct at least an image of my life as I know it now. but I no longer frequent social media such as Instagram, Facebook or WeChat. I now blog under a pen name – a delusion of anonymity that is the manifestation of my cowardly submission to the invisible veil of oppression, a flimsy half-hearted masking of identity to pay respects to the “dignity” of blood and name, and ultimately internalised discrimination, gaslighting and belittling. 05.04.2019 11:31
12: 47 pm
Is there truly a difference between living for no reason and dying for no purpose?
10 years / 120 months / 522 weeks / 3652 days ago.
A decade ago.
It should mean something. If anything, it’s at least a tenth of an average person’s life – if said person was to live to the current life expectancy of 85.6 (F, HK). But time no longer feels linear. Nor is it consistent. It seems to come and go as it pleases, and pays respect to no one; dead or alive.
I apologise for my shy mannerisms; the material and content I share is not only private and sensitive, but it is also rather graphic and explicit; (ie not for public consumption). I am still rather wary and timid about sharing these things, they do not paint a pretty picture. In fact, what is depicted can even be considered inappropriate, triggering, vulgar, etc – basically taboo, I suppose.
I have always written and recorded in this manner, the only difference being I kept these private and almost forbidden. But this also meant it was easy to forget or deny the existence of these thoughts or memories – particularly the unpleasant or undesirable ones.
The documentation of these notions, however, acts as a testament to their existence – in turn deeming any form of denial
null. I am forcing myself to acknowledge and accept as you are my witness.
The content is blunt and unfiltered, and meant to be as sincere and genuine as possible – unfortunately, this also means that it can be very offensive and inconsiderate too. In the name of remaining true, thoughts,
events and possibly identifying details will be largely unfiltered though names will be changed out of respect I suppose.
Should you decide to venture into my madhouse of horrors, I kindly request one thing: that you see the homeowner as an altogether different person from the I you know. I would very much appreciate it if we could view this character as a fictional one.
Anonymity seems to give off a false sense of safety, the illusion of security; a delusion of invulnerability, even. – this, sadly, also leads some to wreak havoc and unleash unnecessary animosity, not unlike masked vigilantes.
How did you resolve this dilemma? What ultimately convinced you to forsake the cosy blanket of anonymity and expose yourself to the cruel, unforgiving Internet? What gave you the courage to risk the possibly detrimental consequences of being honest?
I confess, as time progresses, I become increasingly paranoid once again – and I hoard “articles” like this and review them endlessly, adding and editing, scrutinising every mistake or poorly worded recipe for misinterpretation. This defeats, undermines my original intention of overcoming the self-conscious practice of censoring, filtering and editing thoughts – which makes this blog no different from any other primed and packaged product. Nothing is ever good enough, but this, in itself, is one of the obstacles I shall overcome.
There is a fine line between editing and packaging, and I have yet to fully grasp it.
I don’t mean any disrespect, I cannot imagine the amount of work that goes into these well thought out and well-presented mediums… However my goal is not to build an empire, it is to document my journey and discourage back-pedalling, with you as my witness.
As for friends and family – the disconnection from my identity as the girl you know is for mutual benefit – I don’t want to have to worry about you worrying, stigma, judgement etc – some boundaries are not meant to be surpassed, some things are better withheld. By choosing to do this, I am opening myself up and allowing myself to be put in a spot of vulnerability: so please give me the courtesy of keeping unconstructive criticism, pity or sympathy to yourself. I really do not have the capacity to withstand any perceived aggression at my current state of volatile sensitivity.
I am not crying for help or pining for attention. – much less unsolicited advice. I am trying to overcome this irrational fear of facing my thoughts and notions, regardless of how undesirable or unpleasant they are. I trust your experiences may be of valuable insight – but please understand this: I have little to no capacity for casual social banter, much less the patience to defend my free speech.
I have no appetite for shallow pleasantries, and believe in genuine connection – I respect thoughtful interaction and value genuine conversation. However, I lack the emotional energy to engage with sincerity as often as I would like. I see no purpose in some half-arsed reply, no matter how timely – it defeats the purpose of communicating in the first place. In fact, it’s outright disrespectful and a disgrace.
However, if you don’t mind a penpal who replies once in a blue moon, do reach out to me. I am ever so captivated by the chance to explore another’s mind and see the world through another’s eyes. As for this, think of it not as a blog, journal, or diary. Picture it a novel, tabloid or narrative – it may be my story but in the end, it is just a story. 13:58 | 06.04.19 02:12