If You Look For Me, I’m Hiding In My Writing

If you look carefully, you can find residues of a person’s soul scattered all over the place. A little bit resides in their stride, how they choose to style their hair. Their decision to wear a plain t-shirt and raggedy ass jeans, because they don’t give a fuck and want people to know that they don’t give a fuck; or the decision to be exceptionally well coiffed, exceptionally stylish, exceptionally on-time, and exceptionally anal. Those too are particles of the soul.

Within these types of presentations I can see some of myself in that. The fact that my hair is perpetually pulled back and held up by a clip, reflects an innate laziness on my part to make the effort to be distinctive. Or that when I was being corporate professional I tended to wear small sensible looking earring to showcase my acquiescence to business ideology—but when I am outside of that I wear longer, more “chic” looking jewelry, to show how oh so cool I am. It even rests in my simple but tasteful tops, comfortable but form flattering jeans, and preference for cozy loafers to illustrate my sophisticated grown-up appeal. And when I’m in my faux-fur, persuasively faux-suede coat it is not a coincidence that I look like a rich bitch. That was all very intentional—thank you very much.

In all these things my soul is brilliantly displayed. But even a greater display of its radiance rests in my writing. I feel the need to always stress the fact that while not all writing is autobiographical it is always personal. I hate when people, especially teachers who think they are teaching you something, always like to interpret a person’s writing as another form of biography. While there are some who may do this, not all do that. In any case, trying to figure out whether the author of Lolita is really a pedophile due to the book’s focus on child-adult love is not in my opinion, true literary scholarship. However what is true is that this author is displaying a product of their self and that makes it inherently personal.

This unequivocally is the case with me. I spill myself all over my written work, and each mode I inhabit reflects the side of myself I want to put on display. My academic work is obviously me trying to flaunt my intellect—and earn an A; while my creative fictional work is a far more complex pastiche of the inner workings of my mind. This blog is probably the clearest and nearest form of “me” that is on written display. Of course it is not without its plumage. I’m not exactly giving it to you raw baby—I am in fact highly censored. What you see written here isn’t me waking up out of bed, hair all out of whack, with the residue of morning funk on my breath. Rather, I am right now dressed up in that nice top, comfortable jeans and chic loafers. My hair is pulled back neatly and I even took the time to perfume. I may or may not be crossing my legs, but I am presenting myself outwardly in a form I deem suitable for the outside world to see. Only that I like you—and because I do, I let you have a taste of the inside of me. You see, the one thing that very few people realize is that in spite of my congeniality, I rarely let people in. I may impart some biographical data, and I certainly can be highly entertaining—but the thing that gives insight to my mind, I grant very limited access to.

Except of course in my writing, which for those who look carefully, can see that I’m on full display. It is actually for that reason—as well as an innate shyness that I find difficult to overcome—that I rarely inform people outside of my writing, and allow fewer still to read it (by the way that does become a problem when I try to self-promote as I have to fight my own natural instinct). I am afraid of people seeing the pieces of my soul.

But over time I’ve gradually learned to expand more and express myself. I do display my work in the open, because I’m assuming the existence of a kinship with people who I don’t know and probably will never know. But the ties that bind us—as humans—are far greater than any distinctions. So this gives me the comfort to show myself in my most flagrant form; and I’m doing so, since it’s soon to be summer time—in my bad ass shades.

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