As a writer, as a diarist, as a poet, and as an all-around feeder on nostalgia, I have always counted on experiences to last. I have always expected to experience moments that would define the course of my life, that would shift my perspective on appearance and images. But with each burst of emotion and late night revelation, I seem to be disappointing myself: there are scarcely lightbulb moments… mostly temporary dilations.
Social media makes it seem like our lives are shaped by a breathless series of defining moments. There is a raw, sentimental captions accompanied by a candid picture of an exact second. And at the moment, the feeling is true. The emotions are cursing through the veins, and the hand shakes with an anticipation for the reveal. But what has the memory become of in two weeks, in a month? Most likely just a nostalgic reminder of a humid summer night. But the caption and picture are still there, and so our Internet identity is gifted with a seemingly life-changing moment.
However, to reason this stagnancy entirely through Internet culture seems to be a shallow reflection of the human’s mind. Perhaps it is simply that I expect much from life when I do not even live it with vitality. How should I treasure moments when I spend an even larger amount of time picking on my own downfalls (and the ones of others, alas)? How should I reflect the progress of my character when I choose to desire instead? Even though these are natural restrictions of the human capacity, I cannot help but think that I would be able to weaken them by strengthening my character (a conversation for another day).
And so I don’t know if I should accept my new line of thought or fight against it. The idea of being shaped by bursts of experiences strongly attracts me as an emotional and pensive individual; yet I hesitate to live through a pattern that is perhaps simply activated by fleeting public endeavours.
But this is in no way to diminish the VALUE of experiences. The value of its present, the value of its reflection and reminiscence, and the value of our luck for everything to have lined up just right. That, I would like to think, is why I write my candid blog posts, my tucked-away poems, my little quote cards.
Therefore, I want to think of all my experiences as, first and foremost, conscious signs of living. The truth in its significance for the future is a question that should be reserved for the unconscious becomings.