Constructed Realities was an interactive audio-visual experience in which individual audience members followed a guided audio track through five installations correlating to a stage of loneliness.
Room 1: Connection
Room 3: Performance
I also wish life was fucking simple. And I alternate between wanting gentle love and violent passion. Depends on the mood. I wonder who wrote this. I think it's universal but specific - I relate to some of it. I’m not sure how I feel after reading it, especially reading it out loud. I feel a little raw. I feel young and inexperienced. I’m looking at myself in the mirror right now and it’s so strange that my face is my face. You know what I mean? I think like that a lot, I’m not going to lie - I don’t really know what to write about. That was… a lot to read. Wow. I am looking at my face in the mirror again. I look tired. I am tired. In a general sense. Tired and confused. I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know. I also don’t know if I responded to the prompt the right way.
Sitting and thinking now. Hmm.
I think that I want to back away from everything and just fade into the background, as if life was an eternal subway ride. In the subway no one knows who you are or what you do and you are just stagnant. That’s bliss.
I don’t know, maybe I just want to be seen by me but seeing myself may imply understanding myself and there really isn’t much to understand. I try to let feelings run their course but at the end of the day I find that feelings only fade. It's like being a jar full of air, or like white noise that’s only interrupted by screams of help? This doesn’t make much sense.
Sometimes I feel like I’m holding many hands but somehow no hands are holding me? Or maybe all the hands are holding me which somehow makes it worse. I like holding those hands but maybe only because if I didn’t hold them they would float away, and the pain of them floating away is ten times greater than the feeling that comes with hanging on. I’m not enough. I’m not doing enough.
I don’t like what I wrote. I think I’m a bad writer. Maybe I’m just a bad artist. Who am I if I’m not good at what I do?
I wonder if I have the capacity to be this person. (I know not: all current signs point to no). There is a… subversion, a viscousness, that I see manifested so often in others but never in myself. Next to something like this even my rages feel tame. I can get angry, sure, simmer in self-loathing, call myself a prude and a self-centered bore, but never like this.
Maybe it’s why I don’t do drugs? Am I afraid of accessing something like this, a heady mix of primal despair and teenage ennui? My excuse had always been a fear of losing control (side note: poor choice of words - “excuse” implies that I just want to look for a reason not to, which has never been the case). But what is behind that fear? Is it more than looking like a fool in front of my roommates or the worst parts of myself being magnified? Am I afraid that under so many sedimentary, smoother-over layers of me something feral, something terrifying, is dormant? Green pen shimmers under dressing room lights. “I can’t imagine you having sex. Maybe it's the haircut.” Stared at myself in the mirror while I read this line… do I believe it? I feel like such a child sometimes - I’ve always liked being innocent. As much as I’ll play around in my head, I can’t picture myself doing anything. Not out of revulsion, certainly, but out of hesitancy.
I’ve been thinking of cutting my hair for quite some time.
Room 5: Contemplation
Room 2: Loneliness
Audience members were invited to sit in silence and process the experience for two minutes before they left the studio.