Tonight I keep dancing between a blank page and a completely filled one- I mean that literally.
On the filled one I have 546 words of a story I would need to send to a friend of mine if I can successfully write a new piece on the blank page; by “successfully write” I do not mean merely completing the article and pressing the buttons CTRL+S, I mean writing successfully enough to love it and having the confidence to have another pair of eyes view them.
That blank page by the way is the one I am writing on now. I really do hope that for the sake of the long interval in posting any article on my page and my own reawakening faith in this gift that I do tag this one of my success stories.
“My success story” I repeat to myself… My success story of perfection in which I paint a picture of a fluid writer ensuring that no eye gets to see the first five conclusions that were so unauthentic, my success story of perfection in which I carefully choose the bright scenes of my life to post on Instagram and delete the scenes that I was caught with no make-up on, my success story of perfection in which the world sees me as that guy that has his acts all together in my well-tailored suit and honey coated words yet totally aware of how my mirror withdraws in fear whenever it sees my reflection, my success story of an impeccable happily ever after couple when in truth I already question my desire to stay true to those vows.
My success story of perfection in which I choose to showcase a newly made up layer of who I am rather than my many layers of 546 imperfections.
My and our success stories of creating a culture of painting, erasing, sculpting, editing, deleting and I dare say perfecting the art of unauthenticity. I almost feel like declaring a world authenticity day where we all go out without makeup, where we say the words we really want to say, where we post pictures without editing them, where we take pictures of the “un-photogenic” side of our faces!!!!, where we do not buy things we cannot afford, where some of us lose the weaves (*coughs*), a day where we can all see that we all are equally perfectly flawed (or maybe not)! But just one day of rare pink genuineness.
However, since I have not been voted president of the association against unauthenticity a position I am certain to be unqualified for based on obvious reasons, I would end my imperfect success story with this quote I find quite apt:
“Here’s what’s not beautiful about us: from here, you can’t see the rust or the cracked paint or whatever, but you can tell what the place really is. You can see how fake it all is. It’s not even hard enough to be made out of plastic. It’s a paper town. I mean, look at it, look at all those culs-de-sac, those streets that turn in on themselves, all the houses that were built to fall apart. All those paper people living in their paper houses, burning the future to stay warm. All the paper kids drinking beer bought for them at the paper convenience store. Everyone demented with the mania of owning things. All the things paper-thin and paper-frail. And all the people, too.
John Green, Paper Towns
If like me you are assured that what is up there is not about you then you may have moved beyond painting, erasing, sculpting, editing and deleting, you may have fallen prey of your own fabrications…. and I do hope for the sake of the association that the white linen covering your mirror is torn in two.
Cheers to authenticity and the grace to “successfully write” again.
Photo Credit: Happy Mask, Unhappy Boy (1963) – Margaret Keane.