Unquiet
Things

An idea sprouted recently when I posed a question on Instagram, asking if there was anything people wanted to see me discuss in a YouTube video.

Someone commented that they’d love to hear about how I came by my love of cooking. This got me thinking – there are quite a few fascinations and fixations that are integral to who I am, making up a large portion of my personality. I realized I’d love to do some serious reflecting and writing about these aspects of myself, beyond chatter for my YouTube channel. Maybe a whole series of writings! Yes, yes, I’ll eventually get around to the YouTube stuff, too.

But then it hit me… wow… that’s an awful lot of talking about myself. Even more so than usual!

This realization led me to contemplate my relationship with self-reflection and self-expression, particularly in my writing. There’s a commonly held belief that it’s rude to talk about oneself. This unspoken rule has long shaped social interactions, tempering personal revelations in polite conversation. And yet, here I am, as I have been for years now, engaging in what some might consider a cardinal sin of etiquette – I write about myself. Constantly. Brazenly. And with a fervor that both thrills and (occasionally) unnerves me.

The irony doesn’t escape me; I find myself perpetually both the subject and the scribe, the observer and the observed. With each essay, each blog post, each scribbled note, I feel a familiar tug – not of hesitancy, but of excitement tinged with a lingering, socially-conditioned squirm of self-consciousness. It’s as if I’m indulging in a pleasure that, according to some unwritten code, should be taken in moderation.

In the depths of my years-long practice of self-reflection, a realization has taken root and blossomed: I am, unabashedly and unequivocally, one of the most interesting people I know. This isn’t vanity speaking, but rather a hard-earned appreciation for the labyrinth of thoughts, experiences, and contradictions that make up my being. Each of us is a universe unto ourselves, a constellation of memories, desires, fears, and wonders. To explore this inner cosmos, to map its terrain and share its marvels – it’s a journey that forever captivates me.

When I write about myself, I’m not just cataloging events or listing traits. I’m continuing an ongoing expedition into the ever-changing territories of my psyche, returning with field notes that chronicle my personal human experience. In my joys and sorrows, my triumphs and blunders, I find a complex mosaic of life that feels endlessly fascinating to explore.

This self-exploration manifests in myriad ways throughout my writing. When I delve into the realm of grotesque, avant-garde fashion, I’m not just analyzing fabric and form – I’m excavating the parts of myself drawn to the unconventional, the shocking, the beautifully disturbing. Each piece is a mirror, reflecting facets of my own complex relationship with aesthetics and identity.

My perfume reviews are much more than descriptions of scent notes and sillage. (I don’t even talk about sillage. Who cares about how long it lasts or how big or small your stink-miasma is? Spray more if you need to!) Instead, they’re portals into the dreamscapes of my inner world. As I write about a fragrance, I weave in the fiction of my imagination, the stories and scenes that each scent evokes. It’s a deeply personal olfactory journey, something uniquely mine.

And my fascination with grief and horror? It’s not just morbid curiosity. It’s an extension of my attempt to understand the depths of human emotion, to explore the shadows that dwell within us all. In writing about these themes, I’m processing my own fears, confronting my own mortality, and finding strange comfort in the universality of these dark experiences.

All of it – every word, every topic, every obsession – comes from a deeply personal place. I see myself reflected in the grotesque and the beautiful, in the imagined worlds conjured by a perfume, in the melancholic and the horrific. My writing is a kaleidoscope of weirdness and relentless self-inquiry, each turn revealing new patterns of my inner world.

I’m my biggest advocate for this practice, and yet occasionally, I am very self-conscious about this proclivity of mine. I’m acutely aware that my enthusiasm for self-reflection, especially when it takes such dark and unconventional forms, might be perceived as self-absorption or edgelordy sensationalism by others. And yet, I can’t deny the deep satisfaction and insight I gain from this practice. It’s a personal indulgence, yes, but one that feels vital to my understanding of myself and my place in the world. In many ways, it’s become the cornerstone of my writing practice.

Interestingly, I’ve noticed a trend in book reviews where critics often bristle at authors who pepper their nonfiction works with personal stories. It’s a critique I’ve never understood. In fact, I love it when authors do this. Personal stories are important, especially in how they relate to the subjects you’re passionately writing about.

If someone is somehow enthusiastic enough to write an entire book about carving wooden soup spoons or the mating habits of jumping spiders, don’t you want to know why? And doesn’t that entail getting to know the author better? These personal anecdotes and reflections provide context, depth, and a human connection to the subject matter. They transform dry facts into lived experiences, making the content more relatable and, often, more memorable.

In embracing this art of writing about myself through these varied lenses, I’m not turning away from the world, but rather processing my experiences of it. I’m creating a record of my journey through life, capturing the evolving landscape of my thoughts and feelings, from the grotesque to the grief-stricken, from the imaginary scent-scapes to the horrific. It’s a deeply personal archive, a testament to my existence and my growth.

So I’ll continue to write about myself, not to challenge any societal norms or to encourage others to do the same, but simply because it feels true to who I am. It’s a practice that brings me joy, insight, and a sense of continuity in my ever-changing life. In the end, perhaps that’s all the justification I need – this is who I am, this is what I do, and I find it endlessly fascinating