If one wishes to leave an indelible mark, one needs to do it in the form of art.
Books, fine art, films.
Especially in this everyone-has-a-blog-and-opinion world we live in.
We all like to think that we are something special.
The husband and I once went to the museum of modern art in Antwerp, an exhibit called The order of things (a la Foucoult).
A brilliant photographer, Hans Eijkelboom, took photos of people with similar dress on the streets, and grouped them together (a.k.a. serial portraiture).
Men with red pants, ladies with yellow shopping bags, grunged youths with dark clothes, ladies with skirts of a certain length.
It made an incredibly big impression on me, and I have often thought of it in the past 5 years or so.
The scary part: We ALL fall into some obscure category.
The good part: There are like-minded weirdos out there.
We ain't that special nor unique.
The thought takes an awful amount of pressure off of my shoulders.
I can just BE.
There is no need to stand out.
It's not even possible.
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