Dad, you caught me. I really wasn’t looking for a great plan on how to make us richer and fill up the fridge with wine and cheese from Europe, not even close to discovering the cure for cancer, and definitely searching for nothing like your next companion to take you away from your own solitude and disillusionment with simultaneous media narrative. I know just how nothing seems to happen in our lives, but since I’m younger, I figured it would be ok to spend my day searching in and out for a matching wonder, for someone, who’s not a robot and proved it by clicking the same cars and bridges and traffic lights, that life wasn’t supposed to be taken seriously, but maybe the focus wasn’t meant to be full distraction, and there would be some kind of judgement on some part, for the good of humanity and decency. I’ve taken my interest in language to another level, and as much as I don’t enjoy reading myself when I spell out a dirty word, try to avoid it and make up a list of things I would never say along with a shameful or ridiculed purpose of communication, eventually I realize that was an instinct I had to follow, and the monolingual party would never attain the real ethos in the recently learned, naturally assimilated acronyms “wyd”, “hmu” and other conversation fillers.
But you see, I wanted to investigate language, not people. That makes me different. Different in the sense that I wasn’t looking for a superior motivation, I was craving for company, and the first time I heard her moaning I was so desperate to have more of that sweet voice enjoying a guided orgasm and self-stimulation with a whole bed to sleep on afterwards that I couldn’t say anything else than remember what people used to say decades ago, whenever they felt some kind of strong connection to the other side, an eye looking back in admiration or curiosity, an invitation to meet the inner soul, an acceptance of fragility, a complementarity of ideology and taste, beauty and grace, permission and clamor, all the things we associate with love. How could I say loving someone was genuine with all those people watching? But no, they weren’t. We had the software working for us, all it was, simply put, was facilitation. We both couldn’t say what really bothered us, and we found ourselves in the hands of moderators for our internet use, who eventually would make the screen go brighter and one of us would say connection was better. It wasn’t a distant face, but someone recognizable, someone to adore and nearly worship, something better than a work of art, a moving painting that talked and granted me sexual favors, not a concept, not an idea. Yet, untouchable.
I had many. I’ve seen them come and go. I decided to focus and plan a trip to the States. I thought they would understand my need for attention, my insecurities, my full mercy for all that was being disputed and the posture I had in learning first, asking questions later. But they proved me wrong. I was asking too much, all along. I couldn’t just get in. There was a border. There were families, dogs, neighbors, locks, stairs, sheets, principles, stories, words you can’t learn and feel at the same time, contexts you only remember on a uniform, more conflict, paperwork, laws, public statements and public people, the media, other media, desire for change, and on that one line, nothing I could offer. Then I decided to get naked.
There I was. I didn’t speak my own language anymore. I didn’t believe in love anymore. I didn’t understand the machine or the programs. I wasn’t looking for a permanent solution. I wasn’t aware of the events around me. I never thought about the spectacle, or I wouldn’t have chosen such terrible introductions. Sure, it would make my heart beat faster if I got a nude picture in the first minute, or if I went on cam and with one click I found someone completely bare, saying she wanted me, and kept playing for hours until she dripped on her sheets and shaked in pleasure, I wasn’t going to renounce that once I learned how good it felt, I wasn’t gonna stop either. But I was healing, and most of them were discovering. To them, I was someone to avoid. The disgusting creep. To me, my own reflection. My past which I couldn’t go back to, the history of my senses, affective memory as they call it, a thread to follow, but entangled with controversy, with disappointment, with betrayal, big and small, temporary and permanent, a healthy change of horizon or an inadmissable crime. Public opinion became part of what I chased, for knowing I was in public, though keeping my identity secret. I wanted to hear their thoughts.
But I couldn’t handle mine. I started writing, I flirted with drawing, I came up with songs, I told the stories in messaging, I talked about it countless times, I wanted to expel from me the ingredients of my annoying self-awareness, but no one would listen. They had their share of trouble. They learned how to report, block, fade and move on. They have replacements. They’ll always have new people. New discussions, new people, new whatever, as long as it’s fresh and entertaining. Nothing really seems to keep us busier than we’d like to look, but we can’t even see what’s just ahead of our noses.
And that’s just who we are now. The world is blurry. Your pixel processing means quality of life. Your follower count means more chances. Your music taste can be uploaded on a dating app and serve that purpose alone. Your angles will grant you small gifts. Your quotes will be attached to your own persona. But it’s still blurry. You might want to look deeper into the web, but it’s all been exposed. We’re human. And that’s what makes us try so hard.