Photo by Matt Fielding

Written by Ailsa Anderson

What you’re buying isn’t there, it’s a symbol, a connotation, a representation of what you think it will make you become. What you want to be is a combination of every TV show, every character you’ve ever related to, you have an idea, of an idea, of an idea, of who ends up happy, of you being the protagonist, of tears trickling down your opponents face. A ‘self’ achieved with an  The thoughts you utter, the tears pouring over your contoured cheekbones, the jovial smile,  all bound by ideas, by the clothes they bear, associations of representations, only constructions of the reality you’re willed to perceive, which idea is yours. I cannot bear to contemplate the realms of parameters within which this piece was written. I’m condemned to my own conception of self, my expectations, and they’re not being conveyed with the revolt with which they should, but being expressed passively within limits by which I’m culturally bound.

In this bind we’ll never cease to have the ability to convince ourselves of anything and everything, a relentless denial of sorts streaming through our consciousness, faculties so precise and meticulous at blurring the lines between the real and the expected, the unexpected and the imaginary, no longer a connection between word and substance, but instead representations of interpretations of definitions of actions, and a reverberating set of syllables echoing ‘you matter’. A persuasion of self to the individual, to the confines of egoism, as if this supersedes anything of human substance. It is posed that individualism is conducive to our society, tell me I’m different from them, tell me I’m better, because the mind convinces us of such a thing, in this there exists no positivist logic, surely we have to belong? To exist is to be bound by the most basic of human physical and emotional connections.  Oppose the fabricated ideals of the constructs which make you so comfortable; from achieving survival to entertainment, the human; the empathetic was lost, all adventure lost in the drone of our own monotonous voices, tuned to power and wealth.

One day words will be enough, they will be enough to consume the certainty and stubbornness that encroaches us cell by cell and cripples our faculties, the suspicion that permeates every letter I type, every word I utter and step I cautiously take. A utopian vision of no agenda, tactics, leaving us all with the fluidity of our own consciousness, bound only by creativity,  a self not preoccupied by an excessive need to externalise the self/the ego, to prove one’s individuality. Your individuality is not defined by the clothes and your outer decoration. You see this is where they have you convinced? The choice between the red or black dress. You’re a fool if you think that individuality has anything to do with freedom of anything, only the freedom to succumb to materialism itself and the ideas you profess to represent through it. Freedom is far too inextricably linked to wealth and power to be considered free.

A society so intricately and delicately woven to bombard us with our own self-importance, and the importance of self-importance, because people need the creases of a labourers face, the curvature of a malnourished child’s body, to shock them, to prove  how important they are, to remain happy with all that they have and own, who decided this was happiness anyway? So bogged down are we with this idea of it, we’ve ceased to realise it can be any form, because it’s not a form it’s nothing, but you and your consciousness which combined for a split second in time, then another second in time. A concreteness  in time which arouses the effervescent beauty, by beauty I mean intrigue, that slight squint of an eye, the consuming curiosity that excites her to contemplate, so joyfully, all of existence, illusory, imaginary, reality.

The symbols, the connotations, the representations materialise as lines in her mind, a reality of lines that guide, lines drawn from the inception of time, good and bad, evil, purity, morality, right wrong. Lines that guide a delusion of safety, of familiarity, or the reality we believe that we perceive. Abstractions uttered and contorted to ensure us of our own safety, like it’s not within our power. This linear process is mirrored in every advertisement of our culture, ourselves and our identity, lines of a seemingly endless bombardment of bar codes, the perfectly parallel and perpendicular boxes you’ve so neatly created in your consciousness, within which you place ideas, good or bad, they never blur, or merge to express their opinions.