Not even close to giving it my all, she thought in disgust. For someone who was committed to full disclosure, she had been disappointing herself for years. She daren't comment on her deepest vulnerabilities, joining the maddening crowd that kept it all in, concealed vital components of the human experience behind a mask of social acceptability. She came close to thinking that she wasn't better than any of them. Her practice was a carousel of collusions, gaps and silences. She had claimed never to have sold out, but could she really say she wasn't tainted? You don't get to live this life without participating in the corruption on some level. Hence the existential crisis.
Laughter from the neighbouring sofa. All her mother saw was the finished product - a skillfully mounted production which danced around her insecurities in self-expression. She desperately wanted to shrink her own life within the confines of a blog post, but it proved too risky. Predators abounded, lurking unseen. At least she could up the meta and write with self-consciousness.
*
"Miss Wright?" The woman on the other side of the wall had an English accent.
"I'll be there in a moment," she pleaded. Folding her oversize sweater around her, she finally turned the doorknob and peered out with what she hoped was some semblance of dignity.
The woman unsmilingly handed her a small, dark blue parcel, asked for her signature, and left.
Well what did you think? It's not like there's a trial on your level of competence by a succession of strangers. Encased within were the eyeglasses she had ordered online. She eagerly exchanged the old pair for the new, running her fingers up and down the new, textured sides.
The mirror showed her a familiar sight, but somewhat lighter in the eye area. No more geek chic - at least not for a while. She turned to get started on her blog, aware that she could admire herself (and let her new appearance sink in) later.
Useful. I need to be useful.
It was perhaps a strange goal for someone whose values were so eccentric. Compulsory productivity was something she cringed to consider to have burrowed its way into her subconscious drives. Perhaps she was being overly critical. She was, after all, intellectually voracious. Nobody forced her to consume so much information, day in and day out. It was due to her motivation. Yet she couldn't help but fear that mainstream values had started to insinuate themselves into her system, due to excessive familiarity. Was she only giving lip service to questioning everything? Was she failing to follow through?
Failure. Now that's a concept. Business mavericks are lining up to advise their audiences to fail big, and fail often.
Was she at ease enough to fail successfully? And what would that mean to her at this point in the game?
I need some clarity.
Laughter from the neighbouring sofa. All her mother saw was the finished product - a skillfully mounted production which danced around her insecurities in self-expression. She desperately wanted to shrink her own life within the confines of a blog post, but it proved too risky. Predators abounded, lurking unseen. At least she could up the meta and write with self-consciousness.
*
"Miss Wright?" The woman on the other side of the wall had an English accent.
"I'll be there in a moment," she pleaded. Folding her oversize sweater around her, she finally turned the doorknob and peered out with what she hoped was some semblance of dignity.
The woman unsmilingly handed her a small, dark blue parcel, asked for her signature, and left.
Well what did you think? It's not like there's a trial on your level of competence by a succession of strangers. Encased within were the eyeglasses she had ordered online. She eagerly exchanged the old pair for the new, running her fingers up and down the new, textured sides.
The mirror showed her a familiar sight, but somewhat lighter in the eye area. No more geek chic - at least not for a while. She turned to get started on her blog, aware that she could admire herself (and let her new appearance sink in) later.
Useful. I need to be useful.
It was perhaps a strange goal for someone whose values were so eccentric. Compulsory productivity was something she cringed to consider to have burrowed its way into her subconscious drives. Perhaps she was being overly critical. She was, after all, intellectually voracious. Nobody forced her to consume so much information, day in and day out. It was due to her motivation. Yet she couldn't help but fear that mainstream values had started to insinuate themselves into her system, due to excessive familiarity. Was she only giving lip service to questioning everything? Was she failing to follow through?
Failure. Now that's a concept. Business mavericks are lining up to advise their audiences to fail big, and fail often.
Was she at ease enough to fail successfully? And what would that mean to her at this point in the game?
I need some clarity.
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