C'est Moi?

Kéwé and I explore Malik Market on the periphery of Paris, a place alive with commerce on the weekends and alive with bright colors and graffiti art during the week. I spot this 'R' and as cheesy as it seems, I want Kéwé to take my picture next to it. Why? I remember that when I was a kid, my parents had a lunch box painted for me. It was a red plastic lunch box and on it was a big 'R.' My child mind was forming and understanding symbols for the first time. I knew how to write my name, and my parents told me that these symbols were me. These symbols that I saw on the page were my name and to this day, in my synethesia, I associate the color red with the letter 'R' and in a way identify with these images.

And when I look at this image of myself in this photograph, I see me. That body that I am looking at is me, standing next to a letter that is supposed to be me also. And yet, these are just images. Images like the ones we see on television, where we get information associated with these images telling us how to think about them. I want to pick apart this image of myself. My arms are too big. My skin looks too pale. My chin looks too stubby. I should have worn makeup. And yet these are all false beliefs accumulated over the years. In my rational mind I know that one, the images I am looking at in the above picture are not me. Me is so much more complex and while I am trying to get a sense of my own autonomy, me is not limited to myself as a separate entity from other people. And second, my thoughts are not me either, yet in this world full of information and images, it isn't an easy thing to believe otherwise. So what do I do about it? I recognize that this is a difficult task that will take consistent work, that I must do things that I feel good doing, like writing and dancing. I must do things that are really hard sometimes, like writing and dancing:) and holding myself accountable for how I operate in the world. And I must always have compassion for myself and for other people. Because I am not the only one who has difficulty disassociating myself from the images I see in front of me. This compassion is tough because it means maintaining an open heart when an open heart can lead to heartbreak. It is hard when day in and day out I exchange with people who are tired, depressed, and hardened. But if I choose compassion, maybe I can see beyond the images and beyond the hardened exteriors. If I choose compassion maybe instead of seeing myself in the two-dimensional images, I will see myself in the person standing next to me on the metro.