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With a huff, and a puff, the house of cards falls down...

Social media is everywhere, it seems to reach into the corners of our lives that were once private, and our own. Social media at breakfast time, on the loo, waiting for the train / areoplane / dentist. Photos of other peoples supper, breakfast, christmas trees, kittens. It feels like out there, there is the need to exist on Facebook, Twitter and all the rest, to confirm our very existence, to make it all worthwhile. It feels like to me, that snippets of life have to be liked, commented on, and posted in order to confirm our lives are "ok", to bolster self esteem, to reflect back, "yep, your doing ok".

So what if you're not? What if you are struggling, swimming around in a world of "perfect" statuses, selfies, and infite friends (most if whom you havn't actually had a conversation with for years). What then? And is this only some of us, or all of us, constantly comparing, weighing up our own self worth in relation to anothers? What if those perfect status and lives are just a facade, a mask of what we want others to see ourselves at. The only perfection out there is imperfection, in my eyes, the bravest form of existence is truth and vulnerability. But the bravery to really be "ourselves" on social media, beckons only the strongest.

Huffington Ppost had a great article recently, about what Facebook statuses would really look like if people were honest about how they were feeling in regards to their mental health. If people stopped projecting what they wanted others to believe about them. Its like a stack of cards, if I tell the world about this ideal part of my life, and its liked, commented on, I can then take it from others to be true, it can make me feel better about myself, I can believe in myself, that I exist, and matter, and people know I am here. All without any eye contact, touch, warmth, or words. What kind of world is that. A surreal world, that crashes when the battery runs out.

Enjoy the read..perhaps we can all harness some of that bravery.

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