It was better before. Not every special or mundane moment was documented in flickering flashes, clicks, false fake practiced poses and silly-serious smiles - a retake or two before it meets "perfect". The upload button is the pin-sized access point to the bottomless aimless abyss of storage, dumped on the array of mindless, self-involved, self-loathing, self-promoting but apparently "social" networks. Social as you stalk alone, at odd hours, on some pages for much much longer than you should. Social as you connect with friends, and other people you know which the English language has not nearly enough descriptive titles for.
It might have been better before but who can ignore the ease, the power and presence of the "network" - follow me, hash-tag subject, like like like, comment, handle, pin, pin interest, bbm, whatsapp - me me me - speak to me we say, speak to me. And don't just speak to me - see me - see me as eat, feel sad, feel happy, change hairstyle, get a manicure, run, lie, sit, stand, pose pose pose, instagram, post.
I've never been one to hate the camera - I'm all consumed visually, I've lived by it, I'm making a career out of it - I am the "people-watcher" - my beautiful ying. My dark yang knows there's nothing like the stab of the photograph, piercing and stamping hurt, lack, rejection and insecurity on your heart. There's nothing as painfully permanent in your mind as the visual evidence of everything you don't have.
For me - it's a particular family's social network photographs that arouse parallel feelings of hope and hurt - I look at the sisters I never had who adore each other but more importantly, enjoy each other. The father who adores, respects, educations, obsesses over his girls, the annual family holidays to charming European cities, the twice-daily skype calls when they're apart, hundreds and thousands of photographs reaffirming the deep, unbreakable bonds.
People will say I was obsessed over few boys who broke my heart. Truth is, I was broken already trying to transfer the pain to boys I knew I would hurt me - bring it on, why not. Thank goodness for the man that's come along. However, there will be no more family holidays in my old house, there will only be reluctance to sit together at a dinner table, annoyance at the thought of all being in the same room, hidden anger, agendas and ugliness... and my poor beautiful mother trying to heal us all.
If I push it to the back of my mind, convince myself it's forgiven - I lose all feeling - numb then dead. I'm not happy, i'm not sad, I'm barely even present or living. But if I look at their photographs, purely as I have none like those of my own, I'm stabbed and bleeding all over again.
But quite simply, I am confident - time will heal and then we'll start again in a new house.
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