When you read through enough about pages sometimes you imagine yourself as the person writing it.
And then you wonder to yourself, why did I make all of these about pages?
In this one I’m a designer from the UK, and in this one I am a linguist in love, for twenty years.
Over there so it reads about a trek from Poland to Japan, losing home to find it again.
And now we’re in Shanghai… or practicing some art. Practicing some stiff-upper lip, setting goals to not be a push over.
If you interlace all of them, I wonder what sort of super-human rests behind them. I guess most authors can be that sort of super-human. Especially if you love the idea about a fiction-coming-to-life because imagination-connects-to-this-plane and other footnotes you could append to this sentence.
Of the actual identities I own–but a few, smushed out the daylights by stuffing them into archives–remains a desire of distance. But of the identities above, I love all of them a lot. I think it’s because a super-identity-structure is always about progression and there’s nothing progressive about antiquated labels. Numbers are preferable anyway.
The funny thing about all of these portraits is probably a mild uncertainty shared amongst them: do I want this?
Do you want to be the designer from UK? Do you want to be the roamer of Poland?
Did you intend to be the one you’re suiting up as, reading this?
Who would you rather be? I would be bold to say we don’t really have the faintest clue. Even if you had everything, there’s probably something lurking in the everything-man isn’t there?
If you hide away all of the darker parts–blot them out for this moment–then it’s fun to entertain this thought: You are exactly where you want to be.
You want to be hunched over reading over the contents of another identity.
You want to cradle the uneasiness which follows your weekends, or weekdays, whichever activities lurking that spike the emotion.
You want this surprise, or monotony, or foggy air you’re clearing out the ventilators, dew on the windowsill.
You want all the anger, tears, screams, shivers. Lost loves, longing for moments gone, hoping for something that yet has a form.
And surveying this page, or the monitor that displays this page, down to your clothes, your nearby bookshelves, bed-spreads, deflating pillows–the sounds all come together to make this eternal moment that you always wanted.
It’s an entertaining thought, isn’t it?