Slavic and Toxic

 Currently sitting and reading The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. And when Sylvia writes “I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet,” I get what she’s saying.

 I can only experience life through my own eyes, so I don’t want to draw assumptions, but I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone is truly an artist themselves, and experiences the world with intense passion and excitement. Maybe some people are more conventionally insane than others, but there is a possibility that we all secretly feel the same way and just repress it. And the way I live is completely giving in to every intuitive whim that I experience. I try to spare myself this existential pain by pursuing at least one thing consistently, so it’s becoming solid - real. That’s music for me right now, and I can feel the dream that I have been most intimidated by throughout my whole life coming into fruition. 

A topic I explore in my writing is how I am constantly in limbo with myself. To elaborate, I feel like half of being a girl in this society is getting wrapped up in dumb shit that doesn’t matter. Right now I am addicted to bleaching my hair. I am very inspired by my Slavic roots and putting a ridiculous amount of effort into my appearance. I get into these phases where I try to see how far I can go with the aesthetics, whether it be makeup, fitness, getting too skinny - as if there is something on the other end of that journey. It’s this version of life where you hope that external validation will seep through your skin and make you feel better. It never does, though. And after that I come to realize that no matter what I look like, no matter where I live, or how many material things I acquire- I’m pausing in real time as I write this because that’s it - I don’t know where that leads. 

I say I love money because it seems like the aspirational thing to say.

We all grew up with chaos. Our parents are messed up, our parents’ parents are messed up, and that leaves us fucked up as well. And I think that trying to look put together and play keeping up with the Joneses makes us feel like at least at the end of the day, we look fine to others. This is why social media has such a grip on society. Because it’s a wealthy family paying to get beautiful portraits taken of their family to demonstrate their position - on steroids. 

But I’ve noticed within myself that after trying to play that game and cover my hurt with a bandaid, God pulls me back to write an introspective piece. And only then do I feel fulfilled. When I feel like I’ve addressed what is bothering me and write about it. Being vulnerable is the gift that keeps on giving because it’s the only thing that feels like it will last in this world. 

Being genuinely concerned with how I look, when youth fleets so quickly, feels like a joke sometimes. I try to justify it and think about how being sold these solutions to problems that are a tad fabricated (like how aging is a bad thing), kind of just keeps the world going around, and gives us something to do. Beauty salons are a place for people to escape, talk with each other, and walk out feeling externally better about themselves. I think I am just frustrated that we age in general. Youth for me right now is an hourglass that is slowly beginning to have an alarming amount of sand on the bottom half. But I only get into this mindset when I look online, and in magazines, and start to internalize that outside appearance matters.

Sympathy to the reader, but this is the true limbo in my mind. Every once in a while I stop worrying about dumb shit, but then I miss the feeling of security it gave me. If I’m sad, at least my hair is smooth. At least I can put a smile on my face and sell that idea to the world. 

I try to have no fears, but the one thing that burdens me sometimes is the thought of growing old and jaded before I articulate all of my thoughts and put them out into the world. Every moment that would be a great picture, great video, great song, I feel the yearn to bring it into fruition, and I just hope to do that. If I stay in the moment, keep working on the next project, do everything in my power to develop my vision, will I feel jaded at the end of this? Will I grow old and regretful that I didn’t do even more, or will I sit back and relax. I will probably never sit back and relax. At least not in this fucking tristate. At least not with an incurable overachiever disease. I say that jokingly because if I have one rule, it’s to never complain. The simplicity and mystery of being in the present moment is a blessing, and I think existential dread is the consequence we face for taking it for granted. 

But the truth is, I will get in my head about it again and again, and it’s easier sometimes to accept that I know nothing and get my hair and nails done and go for coffee. 


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