Instagram is corrosive to my attachment with reality. The more emotionally laden I feel, the more potent it’s numbing effect. There was a time, though, when Instagram was the anchoring to my social existence. In those days, my Instagram biography would be regularly updated, as to announce to the world and Instagram robots who I was in this era of my life.
Instagram’s biography function prompts users to tell other users about themselves. For a while, I listed my school in my bio. My swimming and running teams, and carefully selected emojis would make it occasionally. At some point though, I abandoned the endeavour in a fit of choice paralysis. I’d never find a quote, set of emotive colour characters or dimension to myself I’d feel comfortable labeling my online existence as. This paralysis is much mirrored in my dilemmas on how to caption a social media post: I am simply not satiated with a one or two sentence description to a carefully curated set of media. I think that’s also why my blogs read so stream of consciousness: I have quite a lot to say.
My relationship with culture is much the same: a paralysis. There is both too much and not enough for me to assign myself a culture. Culture is, for clarity’s sake, distinct from religion and race in that it points to a broader way of living life. This characterization gives one great creative range, which I’ve yet to avail myself to.
If I did avail myself this creativity, I would have more to say. I could say I’m a Torontonian for having gone to school in the city or a commuter from my comfort with the train system. All in the name of culture and labels. Do we really rush to discuss spirituality and genetics when we ask about others’ culture, or is it the sensitivities of the receivers’ ear we should be blaming?
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