You can’t sleep so you go out with a smartphone flashlight, looking for yourself. Optical illusions of people surround you like Aurora lights ice skating on skies.
The digital landscapes are racecourse roads and you hunt for identity in stories sold for moments of togetherness. The internet is the graffiti of the sky, both are graveyards. One is a studded tapestry of stars and another is haunted by humans whose passions once lived in bear-shaped honey bottles. You are a fragment of a hundred thousand jigsaw pieces, colored in colors shrimps cannot see yet the blue light downsizes your puzzle into a yin yang piece of “to be or not to be”.
So, you learned to protect your pieces by wearing masquerades like war tattoos. But when you fidget your hands, I see screams trapped under those fingernails. You hemorrhage stability but tell yourself to internally bleed for better reasons every year. The helium smiles enamour the emoticons but your tears pool into rivers that form civilizations of self-loathing behind closed doors. It is easy to look up answers to every question on the Internet, maybe that’s why you became a part of a generation that bleeds existentialism in their digital journals. You can find one billion search results in milliseconds but short-circuit because you don’t know how to breathe without wearing your masquerade like an oxygen cylinder.
Your masquerades now throw house parties with your mirrors while you sweat of social anxiety and clean up the boggarts. I have seen you reincarnate yourself like a best out of waste personality contest. But darling, we are prisoners of definitions elucidated by other people, before you answer someone has already yelled it out in the class. You recede into your mushroom house yet yearn for peace in browser tabs. If a tree falls in a forest, no one hears the sound but loneliness is still time spent with the world today.
Sometimes your identity is a political warfare, sometimes your identity is an innocent clap that echoes like a muscle memory when you color code crayons. Sometimes your identity is self-destruction so intimate that it is wreathing flower crowns made of poison ivy, your identity is begging for kindness. Do you think people will be more kind if they counted the number of times their words played in your mind? Sometimes your identity is a goodbye but goodbyes are more about moments cherished than moments mourned. Sometimes your identity is a wish, a wish that you are what your dreams hope to become when they sleep.
The flashlight is out, you still cannot sleep.
//”Error 404! Person not Found”// Enigma
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Picture Credits: Enigma (Inktober 2020 Art Day 19 Dizzy)