id
Back then, I flirted with all sorts of identities, trying to find the one that fit. I was so creative, desperate to express myself, find myself. Always taking on projects - painting, drawing, jewelry making, mixed tapes, writing to pen pals, writing novels... And the fashion! Whoa!
Now I feel like my identity resembles that of a old unfashionable handmade sweater. It's itchy. And smelly. Been laundered one too many times, developing holes and catches and lint balls.
All creativity has been drained from me. I occasionally start knitting or something, but all my projects are short-lived.
This revelation came about the other night, while watching Six Feet Under. It was a scene inside Claire's room, a teenager room. A room which represents your entire world and identity when you're living at home and desperate to escape. I suddenly missed my room, and what it represented to me then. I looked around my room here, and there was nothing at all on the walls. The only thing that revealed the slightest thing about me was the solitary photograph on the bedside table. Of Richard.
To be fair, I've never felt the need to try to make this place my own. I am still pretty creative and expressive when it comes to decorating a place I care about. It's just that I'm increasingly caring less. If that makes sense.
I don't know which is better actually - desperately seeking, or comfortably found. Good news is, I'm too tired to reinvent myself, so at least the world will be spared another sad-ass not-so-mid-life crisis.
Work is almost over. Long weekend ahead. Thank fuck.
