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“How so?”
I clasp my hands together and start twisting my fingers up into funny shapes. I don’t really know how to say what I want to say without it sounding like a lecture, but now that he’s kind of asked without knowing that this deep, soulful answer was coming, I feel obligated to be honest.
“When do we become so cluttered up? We’re so focused when we’re younger, like we can go out and do anything and be anything, because that’s what people tell us, and now we’re not. Now we’re so afraid of doing the wrong thing or being the wrong thing that we don’t even know where to turn or look. I’m not saying go around hurting people or being oblivious, but where’s the line between society shaping and making us and telling us who we can and can’t be- not always for the better- and us actually being ourselves? How do we even discover that when we don’t leave ourselves room to grow for fear of fear?”
“I…” Daniel doesn’t know what to say. Of course he doesn’t because I just ambushed him and I’m not even close to being finished.
“I used to be good. A good writer. I used to want that. I used to be driven. Why do I feel so aimless? I feel like I barely exist. I feel like the things I do don’t matter. I’m not talking about oh I had a shit day or oh I’m having an off moment, or oh, there’s something bad percolating in my brain. I’m talking about who I am at the core of me. The way life eats away at you like a juicy fruit until all that’s left is the core and it’s not a good core, it’s just this old rotten, useless core, so you might as well discard yourself, because what use is it?”
“Jeepers. That sounds bad. Should I take you home?”
Daniel looks sidelong at me and he’s serious. I’m acting like a nut job and wrecking this date because this whole year all I’ve done is hit one roadblock after another and I’m just so exhausted. I keep seeing how happy everyone is around me, and that makes me feel more alone, even when I know that I’m not.
“No. Sorry.” I blow out a breath as Daniel thankfully keeps driving us in the direction he was heading. “I’m just so frustrated. I’m so frustrated that other people don’t even see me when they look at me. They see this body or this shape or this idea, but is that me? People don’t want to know other people. We live in an age of apathy. People are so ready to consume and when you’re consumed and of no use for them, you just get discarded, thrown out like all the other junk. Nothing means anything to anyone anymore. It's so exhausting. I’m so exhausted. I’m so tired of plowing forward and giving it my all and having things never work out. Never. Nothing can ever be easy and nothing can ever be right. I’m not even sure good things exist anymore. There’s just greed and ignorance and the push forward, people falling into the cogs of the machine and getting crushed but does that matter and does anyone notice? History would say no. No one is authentic anymore. People are just facades. Just these stand in things for who they really want to be. Everyone has a fake life. As a woman, if you don’t show your ass and your boobs on social media, you’re made to understand that you have no worth. People spend their entire day framed around how they can be more fake. They sell this golden idea of a golden self that never exists and everyone else strives to make that their version of perfect.”
Daniel’s jaw is working when I glance at him, but he stays quiet. It’s probably the right move. I’m going off on a messy tangent here, doing the vent to end all vents, right on a first date. Yeah. I know. I’m doomed to fail because of all my past failures. Maybe that’s the real curse in my life, not the one my Granny made happen.
“Not everyone likes clothes, but everyone likes to feel good about themselves. I guess that’s why I was drawn to fashion. I loved design. I loved making art come alive. I crazy love drawing and sewing. I guess I was always more of a left brained person, or maybe that’s not a thing anymore because that’s false. I was always good at it. I was crafty. I thought that’s what I should go for. I didn’t realize how many people would think I was stupid because I did that. Because I chose clothes over being a lawyer or a doctor or something. Not that my brothers or cousins are lawyers and doctors. But Granny has made this epic living out of the written word, maybe out of visuals too, but she’s put some great articles and information out there. Her companies employ actual writers. Do writers feel like they’re never good enough? Like they’re never smart enough?”
