Instagram: The Diabolical Mirror

“I am not telling the truth about Dean, I am creating him out of my own inadequacies. You must always remember that.”

– James Salter,

A Sport and a Pastime.  

It is worth mentioning that I found myself awake this morning, on my day off, at 4:11am. For this, I blame Y-.

For whatever reason, good or bad, I decided last night to stalk her on Instagram.

She doesn’t look any older; rather, she looks more like herself than ever before.

Once she was medicated, there was something about her that was just a little bit different. I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what, but she was more like herself than she had ever been.

And the shadowy fingers of whatever influence she had penetrated that little bit deeper, insinuating their grip a little more tightly around my heart. 

She is now, however, thinner than ever. But she doesn’t seem to have done anything to her face. No filler or anything like that (I don’t think). Anyway.

There was quite a bit of bullshit; pics of herself at the races and other such crap. And a lot of very WASPY looking people who inhabit that distinctly private school petri dish of elitist vacuity.

She also has a boyfriend, from what I can deduce, or at least it alludes to that. There are a few photos of them at weddings, and she’s thirty-one at the end of this year, so odds on, he’ll be close to popping the question.

Anyhow. I felt the profound onset of love, and grief; kneeling at the foot of which I felt weird and small. I believed that my relationship with her, which was so deeply meaningful for me, was simply a platform for her to gather the elements of an adult self and move off into her life.

Unlike me, who remains stricken by the dissolution of so profound a love. At this point in my life, she was the most profound of all, but then, there were so many profound and powerful experiences over that period of time that they tend to flow into her, if you like.   

I actually felt that the things she posted on Insta were her less-interesting features. Her fixation with France as some kind of expression of her urbanity and the horse riding of course, which really was her, but comes across as more upper-class twittery.

I still live in the apartment we lived in together, which she decorated. The furniture, the colours, the sheets, the towels. The subtext of it, the secret theme of this place, is her. I cannot help but contrast the subtle decoration of the apartment – her taste – with the symbolic crudity of her Insta.     

There were a few other interesting photos of the boyfriend, whose account I attempted to stalk, but couldn’t get into. I wonder why hers is private, but his isn’t? Anyhow. There was a photo of them at The Prince for some black tie, horse racing event. We used to do those things, at her behest.

I wasn’t especially interested in horse racing, but I would have been happy to sit under an upturned bathtub if I was with her. In the photo, he sits in an armchair while she stands beside it.

I didn’t like that; if we’d gone together, she would have sat and I would have stood beside. She looks emaciated in a silky dress that hangs off the angles of her bones.

There is another selfie that he has taken in the corrugated reflection of a shop window. He’s looking at her with such devotion and desire, and she’s pouting and looking… at herself.

She was such a natural, volatile, scintillating phenomenon. To see her so posed and composed was a little disappointing.

…And then I started to wonder. I blocked her on Facebook after we broke up (I very nearly had to get an intervention order to keep her away), and unblocked her maybe six years later in order that I could send her a message to ask a question (probably the question that is secretly driving this).

She blocked me immediately.  

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