After my mess it dawned on me what I was really focussing on. It was not the memories I was making. I was focussed on possessions. It ran deeper than that. I realized that I was obsessing over people who had no idea I existed when I ignored the people who were with me. I spent hours on my phone going through pictures of people who had already exited my life. We were not in touch but, I knew exactly what they did and with whom last Tuesday.
I spent hours perfecting the best instagram layout for that #foodlife #nom instead of actually enjoying my meal. I was caught up with sharing my fantastic colorful life when in fact it was more grey than I wanted to admit. I was lying to the world but, most importantly I was lying to myself. Yes, I am blessed. I have had opportunities I am genuinely happy to have come across. However, I was not in the moment. I was more focused on wanting to share these great events rather than actually enjoy it. I have always felt social media was a not so subtle way of saying hi, my life is way better than yours. I know we don’t always use it for that but, at times I cannot help but get jealous of you because of how well your instagram theme looks.
I realized I was sick. My phone became an extension of my body. Conversations on-line were more tantalizing than real life. I felt like I had been working so hard until I evaluated the quality of work I was doing. I used to wake up and go on social media first. I then used to spend the next two hours catching up on lives of people I had no physical interaction with. At the end of the day I repeated the same thing. I was a liar
Prior to my epiphany I could not remember when I really connected with people around me. I would touch base with them. occassionally. A casual you good would suffice. I could not remember when I sat outside and appreciated the grasses’green or the sky’s blue. I could not remember when I watched ants marching on by. I could not remember when I was in the present. I was either been shackled by past demons or been seduced by future’s hope. The present was mundane. She offered no hope. No trauma. No wounds. She was just plain. In a line up I passed her every time. In my eyes she held no magic.
After I saw my life present itself through the cluster of assortments sprayed across my room I realized I was not rich. I had no recent memories to tell my grand children. I had not enjoyed life the way I had thought I did. My life was not clothes. It was not wigs or make-up products. Those were not measures for my richness yet I was accumulating possessions to fill the void.
Until next time,