Sitting in my dressing gown

Sitting at my dining table, on a cold December morning. My padded dressing gown keeping the chair and the cold away from me. How did I get to this moment? This melancholic, brain-deadening moment?

I suppose it is from a peek, the merest glimpse, behind that old Wizard of Oz curtain. A slight view of what it is that drives and makes us. A person should never know who they really are, because to know makes you into an actor. It makes every action filter through that part of your brain which asks, “is that what I would do?”. You shouldn’t need to ask, you should just do.

The gnarled knobs of grey gunk that electrically control our lives don’t seem to know what they want. And neither do I. The animalistic core doesn’t so much confuse the cerebral total of the mind, as pretend it doesn’t exist and forget to forward its mail. And the act is reciprocal. “Oh no,” we all say, “we don’t have animal urges”.

It’s an uneasy balance. A tightrope we each walk every day blindfolded. We don’t fall off the rope into those easy rages of childhood as often anymore. So we are tricked into believing that it is not a rope we are walking on. It’s a normal path. But don’t take off that blindfold, oh no. There’s no need for that. No good will come of that.

Then you see yourself. You are walking past a conversation about you. A mirror which is a window. And you see in. You see how you are seen and it makes it hard to remember how you are, how you behave, who you are, who you present yourself as.

What you do is who you are, to other people. Remember that. They can’t see the parts inside your brain. They can’t see what you really think. It’s only what you present that makes up your character for them. What you present consciously and unconsciously.

When I saw into myself, I saw that I forgot to tell the world something. I was screaming something in my head, that I didn’t know you didn’t know. I want to be famous.

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