Where I end and don’t begin

On not wanting to be found and being forgotten

I’ve always hated being seen. Sounds like a backwards statement, doesn’t it? But it’s one true thing about me.

I’m that sociable party guest who still ends up sitting in a corner while people are chatting. I’m that friend who disappears when someone takes a photo for social media. I’m that stranger who feels uncomfortable knowing I’ll appear in the background of someone’s Instagram story. I’m that freelancer who knows social media is important but struggles to post anything at all. I have my moments, of course. Sometimes I pay less attention to it and might send something uncharacteristically personal to friends or family. But it never truly leaves me.

I find burned frames rather beautiful, partial deletion of an image

There’s a quiet dread in seeing my full name in an email. How did you find it? Where was it leaked? It doesn’t feel like recognition. it feels like being pinned under a light I never asked for. While others take pride in their names, wear them like a symbol of self, for me it feels like a breach. I’ve never liked the sound of my full name being spoken out loud. Not because it’s ugly, but because it feels too specific. Like a door left open to a room I never invited anyone into. To me a name isn’t a banner, it’s a spotlight on a stage I never asked to be put on.

If I could change my name and number every year with ease, I would. Simply because I don’t want them to be out there. Receiving random emails and messages makes my skin crawl. How did they get my number? My email? I panic. Which may sound pointless, since privacy is seen as irrelevant these days, maybe even non existent. We can choose what we post online, but we can’t choose what gets passed on after that.

I feel a strange comfort in being forgotten.

There’s a kind of peace in being left out of an event, not being remembered at a party, not having my birthday recalled. But it’s not loneliness, quite the opposite.

Where people chase legacy, I long for deletion. There’s an odd relief in the idea of being completely forgotten. Not out of sadness, but safety. Being remembered means being recalled. Being recalled means being reachable. My ideal presence is like smoke: sensed, but impossible to hold or locate.

Where others present and amplify their lives online, I recoil. A tagged photo, a searchable name, a shared location, to me these don’t feel like sharing. They feel like being watched. The modern self is often one of performance, mine resists that. I don’t want my digital trace to be a trail. I want it to be a series of closed loops, leading nowhere.

But I don’t fear being misunderstood. I welcome it. I find it interesting. What do you suppose of me? I have no interest nor time to meet your expectations, but I am curious to know what they are.

I’ve learned how to be there without being too there. To talk almost without being aware. Not so much withdrawing, but softening the edges of my presence. I’m often told I “blend well” in social spaces, that I’m easy to be around. But it’s not ease. It’s learned. I enjoy the art of soft presence: always there, never too much. Participating without imprinting. I don’t wish to disappear entirely, but I have no intention of shaping how I exist based on someone else’s perception.

There’s still a contradiction I wrestle with: I want to create something meaningful, but I don’t want it tied to me. Anonymity for me isn't about shame, but freedom. I’ve never dreamt of fame, only peace and quiet.

Unshared art became the safest way to exist. It comes and goes in my life, but through it I can project emotion, maybe parts of a story, without needing to reveal myself. And if I do share it, it acts like a proxy. People can connect with the work, but not necessarily with me. No coordinates of my actual self. I hope this quiet concern, this deep wish to stay hidden, to fuel honesty in my art.

What does being remembered mean to you?

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Thank you for reading :)

Take away: maybe it’s time for me to explore film soups this summer lol