profile/bio
feels like we do all we can these days to hide, because it's easier, because we've been hurt before. don't reach out to that person, because they might not like you back. hide behind the veil of a phone to connect without having to feel the shift in their breath, the aversion of eyes, the electricity of eye-contact, the angling of bodies toward each other, the smell of each of your unique shampoos, the inflection of your voices. it's so fucking easy to consolidate your personality between a particularly witty tweet or message, a collection of emoticons or a meme. it's easy to keep your spelling clean and uniform. because when you speak maybe you'll stutter, maybe you won't be able to find the right words to express yourself.
connection is served to us on ready-to-eat server profiles and neat rectangles that show our best angles and prettiest sides. real life is messy and uncontained. real life can't be constrained by the neatness of two dimensions. it's nonlinear, and some things you can't say out loud, no matter how you try, and sometimes your throat closes up and sometimes you don't know what you want. online it is clean and delineated and all your possible choices are laid out for you: A, B, C, and sometimes D, and you can turn off your brain and click, and laugh in the safety of your own room, where you can control the thermostat and the noise and skip the awkward small talk and moments where you are strangers.
it's a cheat code. you can find ways to beat this level without going through the story. human connection is found on demand, curated to your perfect needs and desires, any conflict avoided before being presented, anonymity saving you from true work. your circle is so big and your social network becomes a rack of discount clothing, encounter and discard, over and over, holding out hope you'll find something better.
this cannot be the way to go on. i refuse to wake up six decades from now regretting, mourning, begging for a way back. there's already enough to regret now, at twenty-one, like the eleven months i spent holding my grandfather's hand as his body lost its fight, my lips glued shut, unable to tell him that i loved him.
do you get it? it's not too soon to speak, to confess. it's actually too late. i am too often too late.
i just want you to know that i love you ten years ago. when was the first time i said this? now it's a passing phrase, tacked on at the end of a goodbye. have i said this to you yet? i love you even though i don't know enough about you. i need to crawl into your ribs and lace them shut behind me. never mind you birthed me. never mind you're the crossing guard on my way to my first class of the morning. never mind you're the cashier at my favorite grocery store. never mind you're a roommate i've had for a few months. never mind you're the man that sleeps on the sidewalk next to my apartment. never mind that you're one face in a classroom. i'll look you in the eyes now and be honest: you matter to me. let's risk being awkward, because the possibility—truly connecting, knowing, living—is worth the potential hurt.
i'm done hiding. i want to know you beyond a profile or a bio. i want to know you for real.