LILIT DAVTYAN

If one were to ask me who I identify with, I would mindlessly answer, a lonely, Pierrot like clown child and a distinguished aristocratic gentleman who curses the day that technology was invented. Because I constantly feel torn between three personas that range in a variety of spectrums. The original persona stems from my childhood, one of unapologetic wonder and curiosity. I am Alice peering into the rabbit hole, Margarita flying alongside the moon to reunite with the Master, and Basil Hallward’s broken heart due to Dorian Gray’s sudden change in manner. But in stark contrast, there is also a side of me that realizes that the world is not always fantastical and full of magic. It admittedly makes me feel mopey, lonely, and anxious. A spotlight shines on all three of us whenever any feelings emerge, giving me a sense that everyone can immediately sense how I truly feel. Whether it is through writing, photography, filmmaking, or through the way I easily raise my eyebrows when I am confused. It is there for everyone to see. Just like Pierrot, unable to escape his stamped expressiveness. His cartoonish eyes give away his helpless desperation to be in love. He presses his frilly collar down in frustration but it wraps tightly around his neck, a clear confession of his naivety. The sleeves of his shirt are too long, dangling just enough to work as a guard from too much eye contact. And every night, regardless if the moon is full or crescent, he sits on the window ledge and articulates his dreams and desires. I accompany him most of the time but we still have not figured out how to make his collar less frilly.

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One day, during one of the innumerable storms of my tumultuous adolescence, Wilhelm Pengaldy knocked on my door. His monocle glass sat atop his triangular nose as he peered into the peephole. Mr. Pengaldy introduces himself as a self imposed social critic who graduated from the distinguished school of Oxford. He goes on a tangent immediately, upset that society is not as interested in literature or history anymore. I grew used to these fits, learning that a steaming cup of earl gray tea would usually lessen their duration. But he does have his merry moments. He tips his hat down and gives a bow when he is in a vintage theater awaiting the lights to dim or whenever he rummages through the isles of an old library. But please do not remind him of the newer generation I beg you! ”They are too comfortable with the distractions that capitalism and corporations have created to stupify society!” he declares, frightening Pierrot to sit behind the old divan. So you see, Lilit Davtyan does not have a devil and an angel sitting on her shoulders like your average comrade. She instead has Pierrot on one side crying that his poems are being neglected (maybe it is because he soaked all the paper with his tears and made the ink bleed) and Wilhelm Pengaldy on the other, very furious that no one cares enough for thought provoking media. This tug of war results in her primary but most vibrant trait, a proud over hopeless romanticizer who is drawn to the dream-like and fantastical qualities in life.