Projection is a defense mechanism. One in which what we feel is shadowed on to other people or other objects. And for the most part, that is something people have always been doing in lots of ways, some harmless and some just sad.
The rain, sunsets and empty spaces are just what they are, but someone once felt a way and since then we have been staring at the rain, as depressing and cemented the image with films and art. We let what’s inside us, take over everything, and we become victim not to logic and not to reality, because what’s real isn’t always the first image or thought in our own personal and private reality. There is no place that we can come on our own and decide that this is how we must feel and how we must control what we feel.
The sun was never in danger during an eclipse, but centuries ago people thought it was being eaten up. I know that was just innocent superstition, and projection under its social scientific definition, is something completely different. But it feels the same.
And what about when we begin to see our feelings in things that are dead. That are objects. Can we really judge if a brick is angry? can we judge is a corpse is happy? Why are we desperate to create man like machines and recreate ourselves as artificial beings? But in all these questions and trying to use art to show how we feel, we can all agree when we find something peaceful.
The same thing happens with my brown bag. My aunty got it for me from London, but I’m pretty sure the cow was from Pakistan. Everyone likes it, it’s well made and beautiful, and to me in the right lonely location I can make my bag look like how I feel.
If I’m the one feeling depressed this whole November, why should it be left behind.
I always stuff the bag up with things I think I need, but I’ve seen myself actually needing them. Ironically half on the notes and books I need are never actually in it. They’re always home lying on the table or on my bed and I’m left wondering what’s the load on my back. Why to keep carrying all the extra things around?
Is beautiful all I must aspire to be? Is beauty enough? But why should objects wonder what they look like? And why am I so concerned about how the things I own look? I’m very careful. I don’t buy things that don’t match the images in my head. I don’t buy clothes that I don’t feel suit me. But are those innocent, superficial reasons reason enough?
Why do I have to be so strict about it?
Maybe in the next month , I’ll feel better and liberated and it won’t hurt anymore. And this brown bag will follow me there.
Maheen's Muse 