I sat there, my phone in hand, feeling a heavy wave of fatigue and quite frankly annoyance. Not because the post was particularly annoying, but because it marked yet another cycle in our collective obsession with hyper-categorization. The undying need to belong to a category. A few months ago, everything had to be “niche.” Before that, the ultimate cultural insult was „being performative.” Next month, it will undoubtedly be something else.

But the word performative is still stuck with me. A while ago, my friends casually threw that label at me. I was genuinely shocked. I don’t claim to be entirely immune to the subtle influence of current trends—none of us living in an algorithmically managed world really are. But I have never viewed myself as someone putting on a show.

I remember asking them: “How can I be performative if I actually LIKE these things and don’t just use them to show off?” (to be fair: we all had totally different understandings of the word and meaning of „performative”).

To me, performativity implies insincerity. It means constructing a persona out of whatever is currently trending, adopting tastes like costume pieces simply to buy entry into a specific social group. It is, quite literally, putting on a personality performance.

But at the end of the day, who gets to decide—let alone judge—the legitimacy of what you like? If you like something, you just like it. It’s the exact same way as the classic 'name three songs' phenomenon: wearing a band shirt, only for someone - usually a man - to demand proof that you’re a „real” fan before you’re allowed to wear it.

When did genuine enjoyment get swallowed up by the suspicion of performance? (Yeah i know, a lot of questions in this whole thing). Exactly like that sentence that I encountered a few times on Substack as well: „The only people who think reading in public is performative are people who don’t read”. Like just let me read on my favorite park bench??

The issue with the rapid lifecycle of internet trendwords—from performative to niche to chic—is that they force us into a constant state of self-audit. If you enjoy something that happens to be trending, you’re performative. If you enjoy something obscure, you’re trying too hard to be niche. If you curate your life even a little bit, you’re trying to be chic.

We have created an environment where pure, uncalculating affection for an object, a song, or a style is treated with cynicism and sceptisism. And I know I’m not the only who is tired of that shit.

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The previous one was right in the middle of the pulsating center of the city. And I loved it. Still do, actually. Lots of coffee shops, bars, concept stores, and the masses of people that came with them. Going out was easy, and getting quickly from A to B was even easier. It was basically the place to be.

Mostly young people lived there, and you got to see a lot of tourists, especially during summer and winter. Which could sometimes be really annoying, but at the same time, it made you feel less alone in such a big city.

When I first moved to this city, I yearned for living in that specific area. And when i say yearn, i really mean it. I would take excessively long walks and imagine myself living in one of those period buildings. I still have the pictures of street names and specific houses in my camera roll. In retrospective: maybe i was a little bit of a stalker, just a little tho.

Huge windows, old floors that creak whenever you take a step, and that sense of belonging because you have your own place. Inviting people over for dinner parties, cooking in your own kitchen, keeping plants on a small balcony (if you’re very, very lucky to have one), and the cherry on top: plastering your fridge with pictures, magnets, and postcards. So when you grab a midnight snack, you get to look at all those fun little mementos. I truly believe you can tell a lot about a person if you take a closer look at what they put on their fridge, but that might be a topic for another time.

Anyway, that was all I had wanted from the very beginning. And that never changed. I think the funny thing about moving is that you only really process it weeks, maybe even months later. And that realization hit me today. When I looked around my room, it wasn’t the fact that it was significantly bigger. Nor was it because my furniture was arranged differently (after all, it’s the same furniture I owned before), or that my fridge was already fully decorated. No, it was the sounds drifting in through my open window—sounds that could only truly be heard because the environment actually allowed for it. No constant sirens, honking, or construction work.

Someone was playing the piano. Close by. And in such a beautiful way that you couldn’t ignore it even if you wanted to. I am far from being able to recognize which piece it was, but I dropped everything to sit on my little lookout post—the huge windowsill—and just listen.

And in that moment, it hit me: this is probably the first time since moving here that I am truly living in the moment. And a sense of gratitude washed over me. The privilege of living here, looking out and seeing so much green thanks to that beautiful tree in front of my window, softly swaying in the gentle summer breeze. When you work and strive toward something for so long, it’s easy to forget to look back and also appreciate the little things along the way.

I think that maybe it isn’t the neighborhood that feels more “grown-up,” but rather the version of me looking out the window, realizing that they’ve fulfilled yet another dream.

Fuck, i love sundays <3

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Inspiration is a paradox: it is simultaneously the easiest and the most difficult thing to grasp. Its sources are infinite and ever-evolving, making it nearly impossible to pin down. The most challenging part is the lack of influence or even control. While you can try to trigger a spark, you can’t force it. In fact, the more you try to force it, the less original the result becomes.

I developed a habit of carrying a small journal with me to capture the things in my daily life that move me in any way. Some days, I’ll fill two pages; other times, weeks pass with nothing but a sad, blank space. I try to be patient, but the frustration is real. I have this deep urge to create—to write—yet I find rarely find myself satisfied. I’ve internalized the mantra of “just keep writing,” no matter what. I think i picked that up from the book „The Artists Way”, which i still try to finish by the way. Sometimes, one sentence a day has to be enough. It’s certainly better than nothing.

Movies, books, food, people, colors, fashion, art, photography, sounds, smells… it can literally be anything. Usually, I’d say “the more the better,” but it can quickly become overwhelming.

I don’t like to categorize my thoughts. To me, they exist as a giant mind map connected by a web of red strings. Some are short, some are long. Some have snapped in two, while others have branched into paths that stretch on forever. It’s an extensive mess of images, memories, and pages torn from books just for the sake of one specific quote.

The most transformative thing I did was to stop calling it „inspiration” and use the word collecting. This is why I chose the name La Collectrice. I originally wanted to pick La Collectionneuse after the Eric Rohmer film, but it was already taken. You get the picture.

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Collecting vs. Inspiration

To me, inspiration is fleeting. It arrives and departs, but it never truly stays. It almost feels wasteful: you get inspired, you create, and then you “throw it away.” Collecting, however, is enduring. It is something that lasts, something to be revisited and repurposed at different times.

Reframing it this way lowers the pressure. We all know the paralyzing weight of trying to create something „new” or „fresh”—that’s usually where the blockages happen because nothing feels good enough. But a sentence overheard in a coffee shop three years ago? That might be the key. Or that stick you picked up during a family camping trip, simply because it was part of the branch that held your hammock—the very same hammock where you read that book you distinctively remember to this day.

The beauty of collecting is that it doesn’t have to be physical. I do keep a lot of stuff because physical objects help ground my memories of a specific day, but the collection can exist entirely in the mind.

The Connected Mind

I used the image of a giant mind map because it’s relatable, but in reality, I have no clue what my collection looks like. It’s in constant flux; some things are at the forefront, others are stored away but still accessible. Others seem to be forgotten but just one word can trigger the process of remembering it like it was yesterday.

But again it isn’t the „order” of those mementos. Ultimately, the connection between the pieces is what matters most. After all, what use is one great idea if it stands alone, disconnected from everything else?

This is the quiet work of La Collectrice. It’s a lifelong process of gathering, untangling, and re-tying the knots of my own experience. It has taught me that nothing is ever truly „wasteful” if you know how to keep it. My mindmap might be a mess, and its paths might go on forever, but it is my mess—a living archive of a life spent paying attention. I may not always be inspired, but as long as I am collecting, I am never truly empty.

I can’t exactly remember the day, but the year was 2021. I had just had my wisdom teeth removed and was on some pretty heavy painkillers. As one can imagine, I was lying in bed the whole time, unable to do much of anything but watch movies and shows. I know, it could be worse.

I rewatched a lot of things, but I randomly discovered the reboot of High Fidelity starring Zoë Kravitz. I hadn’t seen the original movie yet, nor had I read the book, so I was immediately intrigued. The plot seemed interesting, and the vibes—not to mention Zoë Kravitz herself—were a huge draw. I got sucked in quickly; the music was great, I loved the production design and I especially loved the characters. Since the protagonist, Rob, was originally a man, I was fascinated to see how the story would translate. In this version, she is not only likable but also complicated. I related to her deeply then, and I still do now.

The reason for this long introduction is because a particular scene from the show stuck with me—one that is legendary among fans of the original as well. In the 2000 film, Rob talks directly to the camera to deliver his monologue. In the show, Rob is talking to her then-boyfriend Simon who delivers the famous line from the book:

Even through my medicated, foggy brain, that sentence got me thinking. Do the things we like really matter more than what we are like?

I don’t think there is a simple “yes” or “no” answer; it depends on the angle from which you approach the subject. However, I do sense some truth in it. There is no doubt that books and films matter, especially in an era where our digital identity is treated as being just as “important” as our real personality. The curation of our lives on social media has reached a point where it serves as an introduction to the world without us ever having to utter a word. Similar tastes in music, films, and books ultimately form a bond when you meet someone new. It represents a shared sensibility, a common humor, and a worldview that you can get behind.

I feel that way every time someone mentions that their favorite show is New Girl or High Fidelity. To say that I have watched these two more than once is an extreme understatement. If you love New Girl, I automatically assume you like to laugh and value an optimistic outlook on life. For me, High Fidelity represents an understanding of a layered character—someone who has good intentions but gets so tangled up in their own emotional world that they end up hurting people. It is also a sign of a diverse taste in music, physical media, fashion, and that messy, cozy vibe the show radiates. I’ll probably still be watching it when I’m 80 years old. But that’s beside the point.

I still wouldn’t say that what you like matters more than what you are like. You might meet a complete asshole and find out they like the same stuff as you—what then? Do those things stop mattering? Are they ruined now?

That is the point I can’t get behind, and the point Rob misses until the very end: Taste is not a moral compass. Yes, you may have a pristine record collection and excellent taste that aligns with mine, but that doesn’t require empathy or the other qualities I value. You could know everything about Jean-Luc Godard and his impact on the Nouvelle Vague, but have no idea how to be there for someone who needs you.

That is another reason why I adore this show so much. Rob is living the “ultimate cool girl” life: she owns a record store where she can come and go as she pleases, has a stunning apartment that perfectly captures her vibe, and seems to have it all. Yet, she is still miserable because she doesn’t realize she is sabotaging her own happiness. She uses her taste as a shield—a way to convince herself and others that being "cool" is the same as being "good." She isn’t honest with others, and she isn’t honest with herself. Her “perfect playlist for a road trip” can’t distract from the fact that she isn’t truly present and often acts selfishly.

Her belief that she can curate a perfect life eventually cracks when she realizes that curating and living are not the same thing. Because in the end, an impressive record collection is just a soundtrack— not a substitute for a soul.

Growing up, you wonder what the adult version of you will look like. No matter how many times you look in the mirror as a child, you just can’t picture the grown-up you. You wonder how your voice will sound, if you’ll laugh differently, what kind of clothes you’ll wear, who your friends will be, where you’ll live, and what the fuck you’ll be doing all day.

Very early on, I carried a vivid blueprint of my “adult persona” within me. I believe that back then, it served as a quiet consolation; I felt I had the grace to remain a child for as long as I needed, simply because the adult version of me already lived—pre-fabricated and certain—in the back of my mind. I was convinced she would endure. And I was right. Unfortunately, I never documented exactly how I envisioned her, but I know this: “Mini-Me” would adore her.

So when, exactly, did I “grow up”? I can say with certainty that some part of me has, for I can now see my childhood self through a distant lens, and I find myself reaching back to gather the interests and hobbies that defined my youth. I once read that our twenties are meant for the reclamation of childhood passions. I find no greater truth than this. I am writing again—not yet with the fervor of my younger years, but with a genuine joy and an undeniable compulsion. I have remained just as inquisitive, perhaps even more so. And the shyness has faded—though, in truth, I was never truly shy; I simply always knew exactly who I wished to speak with, and who I did not.

While I found much of myself by looking inward, I also looked to the world around me for inspiration. I always hoped I’d turn out as cool as the older girls I saw when I was little. It didn’t even matter where I saw them—to me, they were everywhere: in the supermarket, on vacation, or the older sister of a friend. I could never quite figure out what made them so special in my eyes. I think it was the independence and freedom you gain at that age... you wear it on the outside. The confidence and the certainty that it will all work out.

The funny thing is, I’m now at the age I always dreamed about. And I guess it really is special. Everything is open and unknown; you don’t even know where to begin.

Yes, that’s fucking scary, but also really, really exciting. This newfound freedom is a double-edged sword: the beauty of having every path open to you is offset by the weight of actually having to choose one.

I’m often reminded of Sylvia Plath’s metaphor of the fig tree: sitting in the crotch of the tree, starving to death because I cannot decide which fig to choose. Every path—every “fig”—looks so wonderful, but I’m terrified that by picking one, I am letting all the others rot and fall at my feet.

Yet, I’m starting to realize that the fear of choosing is the actual mistake of your twenties. Rather choose a “wrong” one and then pick another than to never pick at all. Sometimes you need to pick a wrong one, let them drop to the ground and rot there.

How else could you possibly discover that it wasn’t a good choice for yourself. How else could a tree continue growing?

Thank you for reading! Really loved to write this piece<3

X

Hannah

I’ve always wanted to be a writer. It felt like the thing to be. I imagined myself in a lowkey, trashy but charming Parisian apartment; my small but practical desk would face the window, and I would get inspired just by looking out of my window. This sounds really performative, I know. But who doesn’t have a vivid imagination of their future versions?

So yes … Carrie Bradshaw in Paris (without the obnoxious men). I still hold on to that fantasy because I’m convinced that my life will turn out the way I want it to be. And I realized that in order to be a writer, I need to write! (mind-blowing, I know).

As a child or young girl, I didn’t even consider if I had any talent or not. I just started writing because I enjoyed it and I felt like it would be a good fit for expressing myself creatively. Nowadays it is different. I didn’t write for a very long time. I kept telling myself that I had nothing important to say, nothing meaningful or even remotely interesting. And the pressure (which was mostly self inflicted) to produce something „good” didn’t help either.

It is frustrating that sometimes I can’t even imagine just starting something, without the small voice in the back of my mind that keeps on telling me that nobody cares, someone already did that before me or why even start when it probably won’t work out? I see myself as an optimistic person and just because that insecure little voice keeps on pretending to know everything, I try to not let it affect me as much. Which is of course not always easy. Most days I find myself in a kind of frozen-state where thoughts race through my mind at such a highspeed that I can’t even process them all. Let alone write them down.

I do believe that that voice can also create beautiful and meaningful things, we just need to learn to tame it and use it to our own advantage.

Writing has always been an outlet for me to bundle my thoughts and process my emotions. Rereading my old diaries reminded me how important this form of expression was for me, and I wondered at what point I lost my hunger for articulating my inner emotional world. At a later time I started writing fictional stories and looking back they all reflect what I felt at that time. These characters had my emotions, my insecurities and also my humour. I couldn’t help but laugh when I found these handwritten stories stored away in a box with a very discreet “Don’t touch” label. I’m glad that I kept them, even though they might be the most embarrassing thing I own.

I am journaling again, and it brings me back to a version of myself, that I thought had gone missing. My ideas and passions have always been there, but writing helped me to find myself again and to build up the courage to just do something. Even if no one sees or reads it.

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