Recently, I asked one of my closest friends to describe me in a few words. She summarized me with:
Come again? Did she say relatable? Out of all the words she could’ve chosen; “humorous”, “generous”, “clumsy”, or even “a big hot mess”, the word “relatable” popped into her mind. Being the typical “Judy”, I took this too seriously; in result, it sent me spiraling down a glacier of self doubt. To me, the word relatable is a slang (seeing auto correct keeps insisting that it’s wrong by underlining it with red) to describe a person that is artificially similar to those around them – a chameleon that’s able to manipulate their feelings and emotions in any setting or place to keep itself safe. If I am an relatable person, this means that I am the definition of others – never my own; always relying on others features to mirror, as if mine will never be enough. At every job interview, they ask you, “tell me about yourself”; this is where you’re suppose to show your outstanding qualifications, hobbies, skills, or interests. But what can I do if I have none? What if my hobbies are like cookies cut from the mold of another’s tray? Raised in a school system that strips away precious time of self discovery, they say,
“you can always do some soul digging when you’re older!
If you take away my time by pilling on mechanically rusted homework, how in the world can I create sparks in a dull society?
But I go on, I keep digging, digging deeper into the shallows of my crumbling mind to find a place of solitude to answer the pressing question: who are you? I constantly try to convince myself that I am made of magnificent stars of scientific importance or even the sweet honey that brings the “buzz” to the honey bee colony – for at least those have a name, an aspect that they can call their own. Yet somehow, I end up being the glossed over sand between your toes, stuff degraded from a once magnificent star, forgotten and intermixed within billions that are the –
What is there to do if I am not the stuff of greatness; the lonely squiggle of a red underline, always adapting to the misspelled and misused.
Perhaps this is why I am able to leave anything behind with no strings attached. Like a grain of sand wisped away by the breezy wind, I can easily drift away from the shore. This is one thing I know for sure, and yet the one aspect I for sure know is the most unsettling. I am aware that I will be able to pack up right now, move far away, and manage to survive; for I am just that, relatable and adaptable.
This now has me aboard a thought train containing the significance of memories and past experiences. If I disregard the fact that my memories are artificially made, my own answer to the question “why does years seem to go by so fast when you look back?” has been answered (and nope, I haven’t yet answered “who am I”? yet). In first world countries, physiologically, it’s near impossible for a human being not to change biased on the active globalization happening in the 21st century. For instance, an individual may not enjoy the same songs they enjoyed a week ago, this is because of outside influence. Lives move at a seemingly fast pace because of the media and influence you soak up, the more clustered things seem, the more memories you have to reflect back upon. Human beings seem to associate quantity with movement. To clarify (sorry in advance for bringing in physics), Newtons First Law of Motion states that an object will consistently move in a set course of direction, unless acted upon by an external force. Think about it this way: segments of our entire life is the “object”, it’s consistently moving along it’s set path (whether it be working towards a goal or common interest) and yet, there are constantly external forces (for instance, distractions) acting upon it. Now (this doesn’t tie in with the physics part) but in my mind, it looks something like this:
Our memories are sent into overdrive trying to remember every crease and turn of this complicated machine called Life, in doing so, we make our past seem much more complicated and hurried then it really was.
What a “big hot mess”.
Image Credits: http://kathrinhonesta.tumblr.com/