I started this project thinking it would be about my interactions with people and about the city I live in. For each month I have a backup interview ready, waiting to be published. People I’ve interviewed, are wondering why I am not publishing anything new. Honestly, my attention dwindles as usual.

There’s a diary I found a few months ago, from when I was in the seventh grade, that has sparked this series of monologues. It’s a diary of a twelve year old contemplating suicide. I know, it’s the most politically incorrect thing to talk about, unless you’re advocating against it. Now, you may wonder why at such a young age thoughts like these pop up in a person’s mind. There are plenty of reasons for it but that’s a conversation for another day. People have all these archives, that show them in their best light. Someday, that would be a part of mine.

But the retrieval of that diary has lead to many revelations. Ya, ya, I know, I’m having too many of those, these days. It seems like I’ve got stuck at a particular age and have not grown beyond it. I feel as if this 35 year old body is just a disguise, I’ve put on and despite my varied experiences, I have the maturity of an imbecile. But there’s another thing that worries me, incessantly. Why are we supposed to go through our lives pretending to be perfect, normal, regular or what have you? If I call a project a 100 pieces of me, what are the pieces that I am going to put on display?

I don’t really have the appropriate answer to that question, yet. But there’s something that gnaws at me. Each time I’m having a conversation with a person it runs the predictable course. Nobody really wants to show you their scars, their broken pieces, their not so perfect lives, their not so perfect thoughts. Nobody wants to say ‘no I’m not an expert on life’ nor on myself! Nobody really says, ‘I’m so confused my head hurts’ or ‘my heart aches’ or ‘I messed up’ or ‘I want you to see the worst version of me.’

I  wonder how I’m going to take this forward. For the longest time I thought not many people read my personal posts. I never share them on other platforms and I don’t allow followers on this particular one. But I underestimate the general curiosity about me. If I carry on, I have to be prepared for all kinds of personal attacks-a dissection of everything I am. To do a project on a person, place or thing is so much easier than on your own thoughts and on your own self. I don’t know if I’ll be able to muster up the courage to talk about my less than perfect existence.

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