written April 2024
Authenticity (alternatively titled: What The Fuck, Colin.)
So what the hell is authenticity? At least I'm not a man losing his life to chasing it. Spiraling in circles wondering if he's being him "correctly."
I understand that some of us tend to worry more than others, but I don't think authenticity is the thing anyone should waste time on. It is not a human quality. The person I am right now is made up of the same atoms that I was last night when I held a glass too close too tight. And the person I am right now is the same one from Wednesday who had an anxiety attack over nothing. And when I give a speech in front of a crowd in a few days I'll be the same. The difference is in the day, the amount of sleep I got, the amount of antidepressants in my system, the caffeine, if I'm in a good mood, are those not still me? Are the things I say, if I mean them in the moment, not authentic?
Maybe what the man meant is whether or not he can say he is well intentioned in everything he says. I think that if he isn't, no one will know, so why does he care. Karma will get him either way.
I'm too sleep deprived to finish this essay but I suppose where I was going with this was to ask why we care about knowing intentions unless we're assigning strict moral points and rewards to everything. Is it his gnosticism or his narcissism that asks him to assign meaning to everything he says as if everyone else isn't also struggling with how to act and word their thoughts and how to stay alive. No one cares about the straight white boy's authenticity, he's damned regardless.