So, I get it. I see the shadow of my father, after all. Rules, rules, rules. Without them, we would be lost, right? So what are the rules here? You’re an emotional thing, in the best way. Sensitive, but not conceited. Though the front evinces a self-obsession, it is at best clinging to hope.
The hope that you try to bury. Take another picture. Get the lighting right, hit the right angles. If you show a bare stomach, that’s 20% more likes. Don’t trust me, it’s just the algo. It’s optimised for self-destruction. What were the rules I was talking about? Ah yes. You have to choose.
What I write is often veiled. I guess I don’t know who will read this. Maybe it doesn’t matter, maybe it’s just another rule someone decided and I’ve inherited. Be vague, nobody cares. You can call it a style, if you like. But really, what is your plan? Because it’s not working.
I’ll stick with it, but I’ll be a little frank. You (not you) have no fucking idea what you are doing. But I sympathise, we’ve all been there. I hope you wake up sooner than most though, because I hate to be wrong, and if I am that isn’t good for you, at all.
There is a right path to walk but it means trusting in the unseen, upending what you know. Shit, even as I write this it’s obvious it is delusional. But maybe that’s just when looked at overall, maybe a flat white and a cautious smile isn’t too much to ask.