my dear,
Do you know what the definition of a typical social media photo is? If you don’t know it or, better said, you don’t want to recognize it, because the reality of this typology is, in fact, not at all foreign to you, then here are some of its characteristics that I can only remind you of now:
No, dear friend, the factual truth is that a photo posted on social media by so many of the likes of you and me does not speak for itself. A photo doesn’t say a thousand words. Such a photograph does not tell the truth behind the lies, as it does not tell about the sighs and sobs behind the smiles captured in it. A photograph does not speak of the bruises left on your body, mind and soul when the flash of the camera was not open, just as it does not speak of arguments, fights and broken hearts. Ah, no, no, these bruises can’t be seen in the photo we’re talking about, because you made sure that the photo passed through the filter of so many layers that you added on top of the original version, so that the bruises, now brown on the surface of the epidermis, made up, get confused with the sepia filter that gives the air of antiquity to a situation that you tell yourself, lying to yourself, that it’s over, that it was nothing, that it doesn’t hurt anymore.
And now when you think that the last one has passed, you let us all know, by means of another filter that makes you shine as if you have dusted your face with star dust, so glittering and sparkling you appear on our screens, that everything is good and beautiful. Until one day when, embarrassed by the rainbow with which your face is clothed from day to day, and sometimes from minute to minute, a rainbow that contrasts starkly with the aforesaid glow under which you pretend that everything has passed, now bruised with anger, now yellow with jealousy, now blue with sadness, and now green with bitterness, , you make another change of look, covering in black and white this entire coloring of your face, now livid like a corpse’s cheek, now reddened like a red plantain, as the blood drains or rises to your head after every episode and after every scene and after every storm, because under a thick layer of paint in black & white you explain to us all that you are only beautifying your nervous constitution that colors you, involuntarily and independently of your will, the face you thus serve us a little more melancholy.
And the darkest part that you retouch in the dark room through the door of which this portfolio that bears witness to your life, only the one imagined by you, comes out, like on a podium, is that you have pleasure and feel satisfaction that we appreciate the thousand lying words that your photographs tell us, to subscribe to your exaggerated desire to manipulate, scenically speaking, the surface content of an image in which you show yourself to us in portrait format, admiring your the lines, shapes, corners, diagonals, and roundings which you set into relief with such great emphasis, despite the fact that nothing or nothing else exists in reality, not the glitter, not the sparkle, not the joy, not the smiles, not the puffed-up chest as if animated by the strongest sense of pride and self-satisfaction. However, you don’t even let God know what’s underneath.
Then what do you do when, by the end of the day, you realize that today you didn’t win us over, because today you too dilated our pupils with such a radiant glow that we were no longer blinded by what is obviously unreal in your profile and cover photo, therefore non-existent? You then let yourself be gripped by a nervous, convulsive tremor, yielding to the anger that comes to you from the offense I have brought you, feeling tired of appreciating so much well-being in a single man, emphasized by his ability to play theater. Then, roused by a hysterical cry, because otherwise you don’t know how to react in the immediate vicinity of the feeling of humiliation from which your wounded vanity tastes, you puff out your chest even more and, as if you don’t know how to lose a war.
All this you do, but darker than that is the fact that, seducing and mesmerizing us with these acrobatics of emotional aesthetics that you practice, yielding to the impulses of your primal instincts which, if they do not cry out of the need for food and shelter, then sigh for the need of admiration, appreciation, affection and recognition of qualities and merits, in the depths of your heart that has been asking us for flattery, through appreciations and words passed on, you hate us and you judge us and you criticize us and you despise us, because we do not see, we do not see, we do not see any beyond appearances that one nerve in your being that has preserved the color of truth, so that, through it, only through this one nerve, if we detected it somewhere in the shadow of some wrinkle of your face that did not pretend to smile, we would know, without you telling us, without you confess to us, that you are at the end of your powers.
So no, dear friend, a photograph cannot do or say these things, but you can, you can tell the truth beyond appearances! Come on, show us your true face, that honest, natural, tired, sad one, wrinkled by the wrinkles of worries and annoyances and lacks, tell us about those things that you don’t let us see, out of embarrassment and shame. But keep the following in mind. When you share your story with the rest of the listening world, you can only speak for yourself. There will always be the other person’s point of view to consider, even when that person is a psychotic who shouldn’t be, but blamed for all that confusion in your head that made you, for so many years, think that, even though you know it’s not worth it, to try one more time, one last time, that time was ten times ago the last time you forced to try once more, giving another chance to something that doesn’t exist in reality, despite the illusion printed in the photo that doesn’t say, you know very well that she doesn’t scream, even though you scream at the top of your lungs, that you can’t anymore. .
That is why, before you incite hatred and anger at the fault of another, remember that you and only you cannot overcome your own belief that makes you think that the devil you know is better than the devil you do not know! In his defense, the other at least has the excuse of being a devil with a human face. You, however, what excuse do you have for standing still, like a damned one, in your suffering? There is no shame and no treason in giving up a war that is lost anyway.
With love, I help you quit,
Cătălina
