There are two types of people: those who enjoy telling themselves a story and those who simply tell themselves lies. The former truly revel in what they do, even when they swim against the tide or without general consent; they travel free regardless of their destination. They travel and tell stories. They soak in and breathe out.
The others don’t.

If you’ve ever found yourself caught up in the worst of rebellions, that against your own self, then you understand what it’s like waking up one day, seeing your reflection in the mirror and asking the person staring back with your own eyes: “Who the hell are you?”.

Those who enjoy telling themselves a story cannot stand the thought of not recognizing themselves, they would never agree to a personality facelift. They don’t fear change, and peacefulness makes them seasick. If they ever struck a deal with the devil they wouldn’t ask for eternal youth but rather to be colorfully mature and intensely old. Like a “Picture of Dorian Gray” in reverse.

They’re the restless kind, those who fear the storm but couldn’t live without it, those who could never fall in love when they’re happy, those who feel their heart beat in their throat, stomach or brain based on whatever weakness inhabits them at the time. Nothing was ever created without worry. An entirely pacified, placid human being is like a trinket on the console table of life in a bland living room, which might be the most pointless room in the house.
When we’re struck by insomnia... how many sleepless nights spent chasing after restful sleep!
The restless know the best dreams are dreamt with open eyes. They look towards the future like a worried child, waiting for the right idea to tear them away from their useless bed and keep them going through their third coffee before dawn.
The others don’t.

We are weak, our weakness a manifesto against ostentatious strength. We are open doors to the conquered rather than the conquerers. We are a shelter and a forge, a laboratory and a warehouse. We are weak in the most blinding of lights, the light of beauty. There is no democracy in beauty, which to Oscar Wilde “has its divine right of sovereignty”. Those who enjoy telling themselves a story fill their lives with questions, as if a sentence was incomplete without a question mark. The hesitant traveller thinks twice before every crossroad and thus unwittingly reconciles the needs for adventure and caution. A well-managed crossroad is a great way to capture the magic of a memory.
We remember every crossroad we have come across, especially the more generic, badly lit ones that often feel the most dangerous.
The others don’t.

That is precisely why there are two types of people, those who tell themselves a story and those who tell themselves lies.
The former live impractical but fascinating lives, with little sleep and many dreams; they travel while sitting still and have fixed bearings even though they exist in a projection of a future where food has been eaten before it even makes it out of the oven and gardens are already dry after having just been watered. We are the ones who curate our thoughts before we curate our appearance. Whether alone or surrounded by people, happy or sad, we know everything we have built took a lot of effort. And we know effort is never a guarantee of success but rather a remedy. Against prejudice, approximation and the weak strength of those who shut themselves off to avoid comparisons.

Elegance starts from the mind. It’s a secular celebration of a pacification ceremony that plays out on the altar of diversity from which a single voice emerges: difference shouldn’t be cancelled simply because it’s different, who ever said we aren’t the ones who are different?

We are far from perfect and the best we can aspire to is to slowly close the distance. We embrace change because we know it’s a beautiful, never-ending kind of torture while resisting change is just plain torture.
The others don’t.

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