I confide in my reflection in the mirror. I look into the glass and see my twenty years and silently calculate what that face will look like in another eight or so. It will probably yield to wrinkles I assume, the ravages of time.
It’s hard to put a finger on what exactly I’m feeling right now. It’s like the room is a little too dark and I’m the only one in it. To be perfectly honest, I keep returning to that Descartian declaration that” I think and therefore I am”. Sometimes everyone else seems like an apparition, as egotistical as that sounds, or perhaps sociopathic. I don’t really feel a deep connection to people these days. I’m not sure if I ever did, come to think of it. I keep thinking that I’ve always resided in my own little world. I did always keep a minimum safe distance, emotionally-speaking.
And then there’s this other pesky hindrance that keeps popping into the forefront of my mind: that matter of originality. I think I, and many other people, fancy themselves regular Donny Darkos, brooding and highly intellectual. Merely misunderstood. But nothing about that caricature of myself is anything original or out of the ordinary. It’s perfectly understood. Those are the times that we find ourselves in, the times of delusional individualism. I’m not sure how to do it, because the clamoring for originality seems to cause this cultural bottle-necking. What do we do to stop ourselves from falling into the creative fray, this oddly forced form of madness that we label as king?