Off exhibitionism

                                            The economic cost of love. (c) P.S.

I had a deepening fear about being on Facebook. I could be slave to the iconic figure I erect of myself out there. In some ways, I was on way to becoming what I am not and what the world has not perceived me as ever.
World, as I know, has not seen me ever, in real colours as I can be, when I am in the middle of my favourite song, season or book. This myself is private, personal and quite sacred like a secret.
Until, of course, Facebook happened.
First, I posted some random, mobile camera pictures, to go with my profile. I listed my interests, as everyone lists. Some don't and that is also one way of asserting that you are different from others in not ``showing off''. I did though, and, yes, was part of the gang that tells all about oneself. So far, I was being myself. My verbosity, in pleasant rarity, is confined to quieter companies of close friends and family but FB was making me different. Here, everyone on my friend list could read who my favourite author was or my favourite quotation was. Was it really warranted? I do realise at some level that it was important to my existence on the networking site, else how do people know me?!
Then, I posted some pictures that strictly belong to my special moments - when i unwind, get wild, uninhibited, very me. I elicted responses - predominantly male, and attention from strangers irritated me. I liked visitors visiting my page, but when they commented on my photos, I felt such repulsion - not towards them but towards myself.
I didn't need to post pictures for people to know me or to name poor TS Eliot as my icon to gain acceptance because what has not mattered all my life (read social acceptance) should not matter when I am 26 and much, much evolved than my puppy days.
You can call it impulsive but true to my self, I deactivated my FB account.
At the immediate level, my net hours have come down sharply in the last couple of days and I sleep early. At a broad, mental level, i feel free of obligations to be active, to comment, connect or pry into others' albums to know where they are travelling, how much cleavage can they show or what the fuck do they do when they are not working, tweeting or sleeping. I am happy in my own, small space and very, very possessive of my privacy, finally.
I am back to what I was pre-FB: a person craving for quiet sessions with closest of friends, or fast drives with boyfriends/girlfriends and poetry sessions when it rains, with coffee mugs ever-flowing, songs playing on my tape recorder and a kitchen replenished with desire food - cookies, pakoras, pastries. I am also back to random dances on my terrace, instead of sedentary internet hours.
FB friends would never know this. Except that in a fit of crazed behaviour, I did and did post pictures of my red skirt just before one of my evening outings. That picture was the curtain call. I couldn't see myself putting all the red shades of my intesnely passionate inetrior on some place as public as Facebook. I shall continue to paint my life red but FB will never know. Never.
And thank you (to all of male species who private messaged me there, eliciting calls/messages/responses to their friendship requests or fan mails). I know how beautiful I am. Your private messages on my sex appeal suck. Afterall, what I posted were just photos and how do you then know if I am 26 or 62? I could be fake, and you could just be chasing that red skirt on ageing bones. In any case, stop now.
My soul is not for sale.