I can’t be a fake concept of myself anymore
Last night I saw life repeating.
Ever since a violent Tinder date last weekend, I have been soberly afraid of the world. Hazily, participating.
Reality TV episodes, tinder matches, Facebook posts, the same guy who won’t leave me alone, the same meal, the same netflix series as I drift off to sleep.
I used to really hope that someone would show up and love me forever. We would be some kind of team. We would be some kind of happy.
I realize that I have destroyed that hope. I have spent 16 months on Tinder. I have been assaulted twice and left behind by many men.
I have forced myself to move forward. I post online about strength and resilience. I write cheekily about disempowering men. I stare at my phone and swipe through the photos of actual people as if they matter less than I value myself.
Last night one match messaged me and quoted my bio, something cheeky about how I like hairy men. I flashed to the date on Saturday. My Romeo read my bio, insisting that I led him to believe that he would be getting laid if he took me out and I wrote and re-wrote my bio upon getting home that night. Last night, someone new innocently quoted my new bio to me and I deleted my Tinder account.
I cannot be a written concept of myself anymore.
I want to be myself without creating Her. Without creating Rachel, I just want to observe, witness, digest and obey only nature. Love only nature.
And, if he comes along naturally, I can love him too.
I deleted my Facebook account.
I took Instagram off my phone.
For good measure, I got rid of Netflix and vowed to keep away from TV.
All connectivity is gone.
I am a complete observer today.
I remember now, everything is borrowed: Every moment, every interaction, every physical element of every day, every life, every spirit.
There is no ownership.
Can we stop trying so hard to own an influence over other people? To be an image in their day? To let them know that I exist I exist I exist I exist…
How can we accomplish a silence?
No one will read this.
I am not posting it anywhere.
I am merely grateful for this small opportunity to write an instance, to give back an experience, for all of those that I have borrowed.
Perhaps that is why I write.
Perhaps that is why I am still writing here.