Identity Sickness

The masks we wear change depending on the company, but it's the mask you wear while alone that's closest to the real you, if there ever is a definitive self. The self abstracted from public opinion and the increasingly persistent presence of camera lenses and wandering digital eyes. No one is ever truly themselves with someone else. It's often been said that the average person lies more on a daily basis than they tell the truth, whether they realise it or not. Our entire identities are based on fractured, self-held assumptions and character assessments. Lies atop lies, a congealing mass of human shaped fiction. We find the most appropriate flowerbed and plant our flag firmly into the dirt and proudly proclaim, "This is me!" No, it isn't. I have the academic, clinical, and professional experience to know that who you think you are and who you actually are wholly different. They represent two different individuals, they have undeniable similarities, sure, but they are fundamentally different. Who are you as you sit in front of the fire on a cold winter's night and stare into the dancing flames? What is it that you see in the licking and twining twists of burning oxygen? One day I hope you're put in a position that forces you to reflect and ask yourself those questions, and then reflect on the answers that squirm up to the surface of your mind. Sooner or later the mask slips and you'll look into the mirror and be confronted by someone you do not recognise, a complete and total stranger that somehow, through some bizarre process, looks like you. They have your features. Your pale grey eyes, your brown and increasingly greying hair, your auburn beard, and they smile in that same more-smirk-than-smile way. It's a perfect facsimile of you; but it isn't you. You have no idea what this person is capable of or what he wants, and maybe his knuckles are battered, bloody, and aching with overwork. Who has he hit? Who did he fuck? What is his motivation? When that person is staring back at you... what then? When that person stares into the combusting stringbark, or redgum, and gazes deep into the middle of the middle of the inferno, what does he see? Chaos or order? Two sides of the same coin, are they not? Likewise, who you are and who you think you are, they are not the same, but they're two sides of the same coin. The flames speak their own ancient language and we have been trying to understand her and discern meaning from her whispers since we first saw lightning crash down from the sky and split trees clean in half, only to hear the roar of thunder seconds later. Those same sparks and their subsequent blazes have inspired an untold number of questions and thoughts, the musings of our most primal minds at the forefront of human inquisition. Back when identity wasn't just some talking point and was ultimately based on how well you navigated the world, surviving its harsh obstacles and the brutality of true experience. Masks weren't important when gnashing teeth and razor-sharp claws were constantly a threat to your safety and wellbeing. I believe ancient man would gaze at us in wonder and disgust. We know the answer to so many of his deepest mysteries but we never even deigned to ask the questions. Our lives are long but frivolous. We don't even know who we are in relationship to the world. Ancient man knew he was of the world. We are so deeply ashamed of who we are we cannot stomach existence without adorning the face of another. Are you finally starting to see what I mean?