When does the urge to selfie die?
hopefully never
You see the time of the above note? 3:10 AM. I’d just awoken from a dream where I was eating that—trays on trays of brown and white and these perfectly geometric Maldon crystals sprinkled with precision. So I scrambled out of bed and made it. I had Chief Keef’s “Yes Sir” stuck in my head. Gunky half-moon eyes, no glasses. Shit was a blur, yes sir. But a divine blur at that! Salty, sweet! A good still from the gestational film canon!
A few months ago, this was a moment I would capture in real time. I would post it to my Instagram story—time-stamped with that uncanny witching hour when the baby is kicking me awake and I’m dreaming about MEDJOOL DATES WITH CREAM CHEESE, WALNUTS, AND SEA SALT—and relish this collision of the metaphysical and tangible before an audience of 4000 people. “Lmaoooo what” I could see myself writing the caption, mindless albeit more in line with how I talk than how I write.
You could say that I am, in a way, doing the same thing here: digitizing a special moment of my life for consumption. Guess I’m partial to the delusion that writing extends its lifespan, seasons it with meaning.
The other day I wrote a poem titled “When does the urge to selfie die?” It isn’t a good poem but it asks a question that’s been on my mind since being off Instagram a while.
