We all have overriding themes in our lives; concepts that seem to define us; feelings and situations that keep coming back, recurring in our lives, no matter how many times we say goodbye to someone, or change our circumstances, or work on our positivity. For me it is troubled love; self-sabotage; masochism; fear of intimacy; yearning for complete surrender; a see-saw of emotions that takes me to strange, painful places, where agony is always woven through my joy. Nabokov called it ‘a tangle of thorns’. If life were one giant novel, this would be totally natural. A novel is a self-contained world that makes a kind of sense onto itself, and so to explore the themes that pervade it is extremely worthwhile, because by doing so you can deduce the author’s intention. But in real life, there is no order. No one ever gets to read a synopsis of their life, and understand the intentions, thoughts, feelings, and fates of other people (characters?) in their life. All we have is our own myopic, biased, handicapped view of our own world, set to a soundtrack of our own twisted thoughts and assumptions. Or in my case, Bastille. And so in life, attempting analysis can often prove futile. We simply do not have enough information. There are things we see and things we miss. Days when we hear the truth being said to us and others when we reject it. Nights where we see who our lovers truly are, but are unconvinced; others where we are given a mirage, and yet accept it without question.
It has always pained me that we can never know what happens when someone leaves our presence. I wish it was like it is in a book, where you follow the most important strain of the story, so that you can see the most complete version of the truth. It would allow us to make informed decisions, to decide for ourselves what character we want to play.
As of right now, I have no idea what character I am playing in my life, or anyone else’s. The only way I can make sense of it is to define the aspects by many titles; to segment myself. I am a daughter, sister, girlfriend. A Mistress and a slave. A child and a grown woman. A blogger and an artist. A writer and a photographer. I am a friend to many, but in such varying capacities that I feel my friends would not recognise all the different versions of me. Parts of my personality are invisible to them, as parts of theirs are to me. I have rows of black stilettos on my bedroom floor - right beside the Converse that take me to warehouse raves in the dead of night, among strangers in a black taxi. I am struggling to find a balance between all these roles that will allow me to live a happy and healthy life, with enough money to survive and enough love to keep me sane. I yearn to give myself to something completely, and no longer be segmented. I cannot find the time to do everything well, and sometimes it makes me feel as if I am failing. Or even worse, that I am lying. In one sense I cannot quite believe my luck; how busy I have become, and what beautiful things my days are filled with now. If I stopped to think about it too much, I would begin to question whether I (?) deserve it. And so I won’t; because that is a question I would never be able to answer. I simply do not have enough information.