search for depth (and rejection of alternative)
The center of my life has always been my bedroom. I didnāt have a lot of friends in school and didnāt have the stamina to play sports outside. I would draw a lot, listen to music, or watch late-night cartoons. I stayed up all night and slept all dayāI still do that last one.
I listened to a lot of "alternative" music, and while I saw glimpses of the lifestyles associated with the art, I never thought deeply about it. It was beautiful, almost tribal, like long-lost kin finding each other through art. I saw these adult subcultures the same way I saw my fashion dolls: tools of play.
It may be shallow, but how could a child see it any other way? Throughout my childhood, I truly believed that everyone had a warm glow inside them. I liked thinking that everyone craved a deep sense of belonging and love, but in hindsight, I was just projecting my own desires onto them. Thatās always been the core of my miscommunication. I think everyone is in it for love, in its various forms. The mix of feeling misunderstood and romanticizing life probably got me even more attached to these works and excited to grow into the subcultures that nurtured them.
Itās an exciting thought: at the dawn of adulthood, you grow your punk rock wings and fly away! Itās wild, itās supernatural, itās a youthful motivation! I hate it. Maybe a subculture is only as good as its era. Maybe I lack that something to be part of it. Better yet, weāre not supposed to be caricatures of ourselves but exist in multiple places at once. Either way, I feel boxed in with the NYC scene. I feel outcast in the same way I do in everyday life. I donāt have the kidneys for this shit, nor the lungs. I hate that I love to get fucked up. Itās fun until youāre more than an hour from your house, and the only thing keeping you alive is the flickering signal of Google Maps and the will of God. Equipped with the powerful defense of a micro skirt and hindered charisma, Iām always surprised Iām still alive.
The most fun Iāve had is during the daytime, when I go to my DJ friendās house off the clock. I also like texting an online friend of mine I met through other artists, who I feel a sisterhood with. For these gifts, I just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Urban nature works in mysterious ways. Those things make me feel like it wasnāt a waste. Nothing is. You need to know what you donāt want so you can pursue what you do. I may be lonely, but never lonely enough to compromise. I donāt want to chase highs or pursue relationships that draw themselves with blurry lines.
The last show I played at wasnāt a typical punk show, and I was excited to play somewhere safer. It was this crafting space Iāve been to a few times, a flea market with an open mic setup. I knew going in there was a limited number of performers allowed, but I had no idea theyād be pulling names randomly from a hat, meaning some people might not get to play. I waited the entire night. I tried to talk to people, but I just wasnāt a good fit. With every name that got called that wasn't my own, I could feel my enthusiasm bleed outāone act after the other. By the end of the night, once I was fully convinced I wouldnāt be playing, there it was. A chipper call of my name, as if I was on the same wavelength as everyone else. I smiled, not because I was happy, but because I probably should.
By the time I got on stage, I felt burnt out and empty. I played a few tabs before I gave up on my set entirely and left.
I have no idea what Iām doing anymore. Iām not sure why I keep trying to leave the ether. I feel like something is backed up inside me when Iām submerged in this realm of being, but the physical world somehow feels less real. Thereās a voice in my head pressuring me to go back into my bedroom. That this bodiless experience will always recognize me, even if only in digital collages. Iām insecure about this entry coming off pessimistic next to everything else Iāve been going through. I donāt like being pitied because I desperately want you to think Iām capable and strong. Iām shriveling under the burn of the pressure. My hand is on the light switch, and I canāt bring myself to turn it off. Thereās an ongoing obsession with light.
