It’s a struggle to be real. In fact, we work hard at being real, yet without fully exposing ourselves completely. Being real means being transparent. No matter what time or day or night, no matter whether our paths cross at a fast-food restaurant, a 5 star dining establishment, a park, a mall a thrift shop, church or a club, I should be the same person all the time. I shouldn’t be working at figuring out which part of me needs to be on displayed based on where you are on my hierarchy of friends chain.
Still, we embrace a false sense of realism. Too much truth, too much rawness, to much reality is too heavy and just too. Like overexposure and then we shy away, scared. Afraid because they weren’t holding back at all, when polite society still recommends holding back a piece of yourself.
We applaud celebritydom. We award those who deliver the most compelling performances. Wow, their delivery was so real. Book clubs thrive on serious discussion over fictional characters. Why is their emotion so real for a part that’s fake? Invented for story-telling purposes?
Real is work. Real would be easier if everyone else around us was real. Real is.
