The more I expand the less certain I am of what I am.
Living without an identity, or at least an amorphous one, does have its consequences.
At this point I’m pretty sure we all can convince ourselves of anything.
So I could certainly convince myself there’s something candid in me. Still, the “restraint” by which I write or interact with people makes me wonder if there’s anything candid left in me.
But all those involved know that candidness isn’t necessarily what’s important; what’s important is whether or not it’s interesting or entertaining or seriously affects you in some way. Input, output.
So I’m not sure where this craving for “candidness” comes from when of all people I know the horrid effects of such things.
Maybe a better label would be a shrill one screaming “THIS IS IT!” or some excitement.
I am reminded of a 9 o’clock visit to a church center when I was much younger. A pamphlet was handed and so I walked down the aisle with my guardian. The rooms felt so small, despite my small frame back then. Looking up at the glass portraits I wondered if those depicted felt safe and tranquil. Whether they like the shades of glass selected. Whether they enjoy the devoted on their knees.
Maybe the “candidness” is something akin to a “wider spectrum” of existence?
A trite comparison is always seeing things in monotone. Color sucked out of it all. But it’s not necessarily that. And I wouldn’t classify it as terminal boredom either.
It is just absurd to maintain a personal space and yet leave it impersonal. But when I think about what personal items to put on display here, it would still be none. Whether that’s due to paranoia or due to a personal preference is up in the air.
When you look at people, you look at a story. I am curious of your story, and don’t care if you aren’t curious about mine; in fact, this is what I prefer. I don’t like running my hands over old scars; I’d rather laser them off. See? They no longer exist, nor do I, and so we can instead sink into the kaleidoscope of your memories.
Maybe I’m just not convinced my memories are all that special or interesting or useful in any sense. Certainly they may be used as reference for a larger point but the points are all slipping away. Constellations crumble into canned clam chowder.
There is one function I am discovering though, writing this. Sharing memories allow you to gather some material for new thoughts.
It just seems too easy to replay the memory rather than making new ones, so it’s easier to banish the “past” altogether. Still, I do at least see the merit.
For when I stumble along journal entries of other sites I can’t help but wonder what mine would look like in contrast. Theirs seems so cohesive while mine inevitably sprawls apart, pulling out sutures, letting the capillaries flay along the hospital bed.
All it’d take would be to title this with the date (which I no longer keep track of) and then keep on writing, writing away whatever this day became.
Writing all the things I would write to you in a letter or a text message. We could have an entire (one-sided) conversation on this page in the most flamboyant display of self-interest. An invitation to be a voyeur.
Some say candidness may be in vain, since it’s impossible to fully know someone else. But I don’t think it’s impossible. It’s just undesirable.
Imagine, sincerely, sharing your every single “fact” of experience that makes up who you are. Showering, sniffling, angerflashes and envy, arousal. Darkest thoughts.
Such candidness… do you think you could look the other in the eye after all you’ve done?
Well, I think so. When I internalize that it’s likely for the other; that they went through the same, it certainly seems possible.
Not to say we’re all sinners, but we all have regrets and things we’re ashamed of. And since we have such a hard time forgiving ourselves it seems unlikely anyone else would too. Impractical.
That line of thinking isn’t wrong! It’s pretty on point. But what I’m underlining here is that it is still possible. The question is whether or not you would want to grit through the pain, embarrassment, pure vulnerability.
Personally, I don’t see the merit. So that’s why this entry is even more ironic. And I suppose that’s why I redefine “candidness” as “excitement” – maybe I just want to be candid about wanting something interesting happen.
Candidness is a bamboo chute toward something interesting, maybe. For most of my real life interactions feel rather robotic with enough practice. They’re terribly efficient though. Things get done. But the very reason you do such conversations is neglected. The very reason you do anything in this world at all.
The only reason to see beauty once more. To see what you saw as a child. To make what you want in the world. These desires get lost in the monotony.
It is so easy to forget that; candidness keeps your arrow straight, at least.