Audience of None
The Unseen Quest to Prove Ourselves
“Every man rushes elsewhere into the future because no man has arrived at himself.”
- Michel de Montaigne”
Dear reader.
I have been seduced by the trance of unworthiness for what feels my whole life. The origins of such despair, I could not tell you. There was no grand crumbling of self, no particular day of unravelling. But rather, it was achingly quiet. A gradual undoing.
I became a divine disaster; holy enough to devote hours of contemplation to, yet tragic enough to pity. The undercurrent of insecurity swept me along life, a force so strong I could not even recognise it at play.
I embarked on the grand quest to prove them wrong, to change roles in the play, to make something of myself. Yet in the honesty of my solitude, the true source of this striving remained a mystery.
The folks I have been lucky enough to see the soft parts of, who reveal their own language of vulnerability, share this common thread. Where did the lack come from, and who do we strive to prove ourselves to? That we do not know.
Speaking to a friend at my climbing gym, we reminisced on the angst of our high school years. We shared the joys of knowing each other through the ‘cringe’ stage, but also the shame, also the darkness.
I wish people hadn’t known me then. I hated that version of myself.
Lying on the floor with weary arms spread wide, she says, “Honestly Em, no one thought of you like that. You were nice, smart too. Played soccer sometimes. No one went beyond that.”
The conclusion that people mightn’t look at me beyond just a glance seemed… insulting. All this work I’ve put in! These hours laboured away! All the outrunning of past selves, past rejections, past shadows… could it really amount to no more than a passing perception to others?
Cut Your Bangs
It was on the sunburnt schoolyard of my Australian youth where I was told by a boy my forehead was too big. So what did I do? I cut the bangs and never wore a high pony again. Dramatic and perhaps deluded of me, I had let another’s words shape my world. And as innocent as a bashful haircut may seem, my ruminating mind couldn’t help but venture. Where else had I contorted myself? When else had another’s judgment caused me to mould into something palatable, something worthy?
I think we all live amongst these ghosts of bygone eras. And maybe it’s much more subtle than a 10 year old boy attempting to flirt with cruel words.
Maybe it was the slow withdrawal of a close friend that made you second guess what forever means.
Or your lack of romantic attention during the pubescent hellscape that dissolved your ability to believe love when it’s begging for you.
Perhaps you were told just one too many times to ‘speak up’ in a room full of insecure loudmouths, replacing your intuitive call to contribute with a hurried desire to be accepted.
Maybe it was just one offhand comment, just one rejection, just one forgotten invite.
From these bizarre little incidences we stretch quite far, become quite abstract. We craft stories, make maps, form the arcs of our journeys.
All in the effort to disprove these spells of inadequacy cast upon us years ago, by whom we’ve all long forgotten
We Are Tribal
Born from our ancient forager ancestors, the desire for tribal acceptance is innate beyond cognitive reasoning. We tend to overestimate just how much we are being observed, with recent research confirming this biological bias. In many ways, our efforts to be regarded fondly makes complete sense.
I understand we are meaning makers. Our reality will always be interpreted in order to fathom our existence within it. But in this age of hyper-individualism, let us not be deluded into thinking people are watching our every move. This egoic phenomenon overruns social media, with the constant pressure to be making something of ourselves, to be proving ourselves.
But dear friend, this quest of yours has no destination. We need not be anything other than of this moment, of this breath, of this divinity found within and all around. The sun will rise and set regardless of our labour.
Silent Symphony
Dusk had arrived, and the others were still out collecting chestnuts. I leant over the sink to dial up the radio, a muffled Italian opera starting to hum through the terracotta home. The stove quietly bubbled an earthy stew, later to be devoured in communion. I lazily poured red wine, socks shuffling along cool tiles. Swaying now, I gather cheese and dates and dark chocolate from the fridge. The intimacy of this solitude was more than being alone. For I have known aloneness dearly. No, rather I basked in the grandeur of not being perceived.
No stories to live out nor self to prove. Just me, witnessing myself amongst the opera and fading daylight. Letting my body indulge in the richness of a date from the farmers market, dark chocolate melting between my fingers, red wine rushing to my cheeks. I whisked myself around the kitchen, leaning into the symphony of this moment that was mine alone.
Search for Heaven Everyday
I think of this quiet evening often, when I grow weary performing my life away. I remind myself that life lived simply is the fullest. Only when I hold onto nothing, release all control of the narrative, can I come into communion with what is here.
To have the curtains draw back. To find an empty audience.
To hear nothing but the pounding of a tired heart.
To turn up the Italian opera.
To dance for yourself.
Soft song for your week:
Stumbling across multi media artist Lesley Dill was like being bathed in moonlight while you befriend a ladybug on a nearby flower, whatever that means. Her work is inspired by her extensive travels and fascination in spirituality.
This quote I found in Ayanna Nicole’s recent piece, an eloquent yet visceral depiction of change that resonated so deeply.
“I am so busy. I am practicing my new hobby of watching me become someone else. There is so much violence in reconstruction. Each minute is grisly, but I have to participate. I am building what cannot break.” - Jennifer Willoughby
3. I never quite made it here on my travels, due to draining my funds in Irish pubs. But this project of communal artists fascinates me and stirs a village-shaped hole in my heart. Watch the video below to yearn with me.
TOAST’s 2024 season look book. To be able to afford their clothing is my version of success.
Finally, this substack I found recently. The most beautiful, illustrative stories that lead you down rabbit holes.
