On Myself:


Myself is a rather diverse character, and I often times struggle to understand her. I do, however, comprehend her and her logic more readily than others. This is undoubtedly because I seek her approval and friendship, while my companions shrink away from her slightly overbearing nature.

Myself and I aren’t terribly alike, but I do sometimes have an arduous time discerning between which characteristics are hers, and which are the ones that don’t really exist, the ones she has given me. I do like Myself though. Very much, actually. She is interesting enough, and has a lot of things to say when we are alone. Around others, she tends to grow quiet; her actual input on a conversation varies based on the company and the topic. When Myself does risk speech in an unwilling crowd, responses have an obvious lack of comprehension.

She really only has herself to blame for the obscure social situation that she finds herself in. Because I am so often called upon to interlude at awkward moments, to smile my fake smile and put on my little play, people forget she’s there. It’s gotten to the point that some of my newer acquaintances don’t even know that she exists. When she does try to come back out, to steal my spotlight, people are perplexed and concerned. The problem is that she is different: not different from others, although that is frequently true, but different from me.
Honestly, I don’t blame her. I have only been here at her side since she has asked me to, but I see the way people treat her, as if she’s crazy. She can’t indulge in intelligent conversation, comment on an intriguing quandary, or ponder aloud a paradoxical situation, because they don’t understand. All that they see is someone different, and they all hate difference. They despise it, and shun as if it is a disease. If Myself were to throw herself out there to the lions, she would be torn apart by ignorance and those who own it.
Such an occurrence would be unbearable. Not only would I be deprived of her stimulating company, but I would also be without depth. There would be nothing under the skin. I would be simple, average, uninteresting in every possible manner. It’s ironic, in a way, because that’s what I’m supposed to be. That is what Myself told me to be. But, even if I’m the only one who knows that she’s there, and if I’m the only one who understands her, it’s enough. Then I can know that I’m not so shallow, as a whole, with her.


Sometimes I am sure that I feel her resentment at the attention I can draw, but she can’t. She is jealous that she has only me for a friend, and I have many others. She has no right, of course, to have such emotions. I am only doing what she wants me to. Yet, she has them. I can tell. She’s trying to get rid of me, too. I can feel her breaking through and speaking out, more than she used to. I often ask Myself if this is a good thing. She always says that of course it is, and tells me that I’m no longer needed- that she wants to be alone so that she won’t be lonely. It hurts, in some sense of the word, to be only a shield. But, how can I honestly be upset, when I’m not real. That is all I am: just an illusion, a distraction for her, so that she can hide. I guess she was going to stop hiding someday, and I am willing to lower my guard and fade away into obscurity.