Yesterday evening I forgot which toothbrush was mine because I was too busy thinking about Instagram (I used the orange one and am still not convinced the choice was right (sorry Terry)). Instagram interests and terrifies me. I went on a bit of a rant on it a few days ago, and accompanied the hysterical text with a picture of my shoe. I have taken several similar shots since. To be succinct, and to be lazy without much realisation from the reader, my rant is pasted below (for your convenience):
If we always take photographs of the things worth capturing, we create a facade which will define a generation; posing and filters atop existence, historically void and characteristically uninteresting. I DO IT TOO. All the time. Because I can, and because it’s easy. Angle a camera and I’m award-winning, at least in my head for five seconds. Do something remotely satisfactory with my hair and the whole fucking world needs to revel in it. But who’s capturing life? Who gives a shit? Is most of the day even worth capturing? Well, no. And that’s exactly the point. Here’s a picture I took waiting for my shift to start, because I didn’t quite dare take one on the train. Does that make it interesting? No. Is it worth me sharing that with other people? Oh God no. So why have I posted it? Because I’m eating Jaffa Cakes right now. Because it’s maybe, possibly just as uninteresting as everything else. It exists. Fin. I don’t know. It exists.