Self Vs. Self

There are giggles, superficial jokes, an atmosphere of humour or talks that reek of lower consciousness. People talk, they pretend, I don’t know, how can I know all? I never claimed to be Mr Know-it-all, I have been in fact wary of knowing it all. Hell, I even doubt what I know. So it is not knowing. Coming back, they know, they claim, they conform and argue and conter-argue, it is a never ending trail, it is a pandora’x box. These are social intercourses where I never find myself at home. Solitude is my home. Don’t get me wrong. I do talk, I do make conversations, dear reader. 

Except those conversations could be with the dead, for example, an author, or even myself. Funnily, it is very stimulating. More than with a random Joe. Last evening, I was strolling and whispering to myself till a gentleman overheard me and felt odd. I can tell he felt odd. He didn’t give me a stare or a solid glance, but I know he was amused. I was embarrassed too. I instantly switched from whispers to quiet musings in my mind, but I wanted my mouth to work. I wanted to have a conversations on the outside of my home, where I regularly talk to myself. 

Till about recently, guests used to circle inside my home and talk. Yes, that simple word – talk. I always heard like an invested child. Perhaps, I should not have. I should have taken them as passing clouds. I erred! I heard and analysed and formed imagery on their stories. What’s the harm in that you think, dear reader. There is! I cringed. The hangover of those stories stayed with after my esteemed guests left. They were well taken care of, mind you. I never demean a guest. I serve them well. I become like them though I shouldn’t. I put on the mask of their environment. I start thinking like them. I start speaking their language. They like it. I like it too. I like being like them. I hide my originality. Being original and yourself is taxing! It takes a lot of effort to explain yourself. But I should make that effort, no? No, I am that languid a**hole who does not. The downside is no one knows me. Well, they know me as a business owner or a founder or some fatass who drowns in smoke and alcohol. Don’t get me wrong – I am that too. But I am not that. 

My primary identity exists few hours a day, just a poster profile on LinkedIn. Some people claim to know me very well. I don’t argue with them. I don’t disagree either. Because, secretly, I know them too well. I know their types very well. Ah! The fallacy of generalisation, you say! I say too but then I still don’t budge. 

I do find my solitude more invigorating. I like my own madness talking to me, with me, all the time, and when I don’t feel mad, I feel lost. I feel like a mortal. It’s a bad, restless feeling. I like my screwed up self. It makes me feel more alive. The unusual, irregular is more exciting. I am selfish, ain’t I? Snobbish, you would say? Speaking from a higher plane it seems? Haha! You never know.