Masks (personas) are like clothes; the soul (anima) is like a naked body. It is usually beautiful only to the one who loves it, and makes everybody else uncomfortable. Society is uncomfortable with nakedness, whether emotional or physical. It’s a mentality that is inculcated from childhood and probably impossible to remove in adulthood.
I have a persona in real life but I find it hard to maintain it online.
I’m naked here, completely naked, but with my face obscured (still anonymous). There are people who do know me in real life here, but I’ve done my best to make sure that no pertinent details (names, places) concerning my real life are explicitly stated. So it’s like the photo I’ve chosen – even if you know for sure who I am, it’s your own knowledge and not something that could be held up as evidence of my sluttery or whatever (hopefully).
I’ve thought a lot about the possibility of getting doxxed (having my real name linked with my writing and exposed) and I’ve figured
1. who cares
2. who cares
3. seriously, who the hell cares
I’ve never been able to play by society’s rules, that is, I’ve never been able to fully believe in them even when I obey them.
But I’m also so, so done with the intense instability of the tortured-artist life.
Life’s too short to spend it pretending that there’s no work to be done, and also to think that it isn’t possible to do it happily.
Both the cynical pessimists and the deluded optimists are wrong; the whole future lies in your hands. Both despair and delusion lead you to inaction because a) it’s all hopeless, so nothing I do matters, or b) it’s all fine, so nothing I do matters.
A hopeful realism is what I want to cultivate in myself. And to surround myself with. c) it all sucks, and I have the potential to make it suck less.
I want to be in love and be with someone who understands what it’s like to want to work to change the world – that it’s both the hardest and the most fulfilling thing you can choose to do with your life.
I also love sex and attention and letters and reassurance and not giving up.
There have been people who couldn’t get enough of me, and would never call me clingy; those who like me less would definitely call me clingy. I suppose it depends on whether my pheromones are pleasant to you. I really have no idea.