Sometimes I read what I’ve written, and I have to wonder who was writing here. I don’t recognize myself after the fact, and it doesn’t bother me. I feel a lot like how I imagine a window feels when it’s being dragged around its desktop while Windows struggles to keep redrawing it. I feel stuck in a lot of places, as if in each passing moment, I leave an exact copy of who I was behind. I don’t think I’d recognize myself in mirrors, either, if I looked in them. I don’t like what mirrors do to people.
I’d like to say that I’m being a bit of a psychological projeriac, and that my sad family trait passed down from generation to the next is premature sophistication. It’s not true, and I’m floundering here in a genre that is both well-defined and full to the brim with people who “feel this way”. No, I just felt like saying that I have no idea who I’ve been. And if that’s the case, how will I figure out who I am?