When I can’t remember where I safely placed an important piece of paper, out of frustration, I eventually ask myself: If I were an important piece of paper, needing to be placed somewhere safe—where would I be? Sometimes this works. But other times, the sentence itself—‘if I were’, disorients me so completely that the search becomes secondary. Suddenly, I catch myself spiralling. Or better: detaching. And I don’t do well when this happens.
As soon as I become, a sense of shame rapidly follows. I then blush because the lie that started it all takes the place of the reason I couldn’t articulate in the first place. But at the same time, I recall the biographies of those who only became themselves when they weren’t, and in that absence, lived their truest lives. I think that if I were truly myself, people would avoid me. Even my face would change. How? I don’t know—but I know it would. Half of what I would do if I were myself I dare not say. Some of it would land me in prison. If I were myself, I would give away everything that was mine and trust the universe blindly.
“If I were myself”—the most dangerous way to live. A path into the unknown. And yet, something in me whispers that if I survived the first call of recklessness, I would experience the world. And in experiencing it, I would feel it—joy, pain, and everything in between, but magnified. Suffering without end, but also the ecstasy of a joy so pure, so unquantifiable, that it would consume me. Even the boredom of being lost before a vast, indifferent nothingness would be the height of my own powerlessness.
That is—until I lose an important piece of paper.
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