Talking to myself as though I wasn't really listening to what
I had to say, as though I really hadn't anything new to tell myself,
as though my self really didn't want to listen to me, as though
my self already knew what I had to say; I asked myself:
"Aren't you just pretend? Aren't you someone I just made
up? Aren't you really only me? Don't we have something better than
this to bring each other? Something more fun to pretend than this?"
I am not really myself lately. At work, in my cubby, in the halls
and coffeerooms, I greet you as if you were not really yourself
either, as if we were each someone other, as if we didn't already
know what we had to say to each other.
And I ask you: "Is this for real? Aren't we really just pretending?
Isn't this something we just made up? Don't we have more joyous
news to bring each other than the number of days before Friday?"
It's like, you know, we're playing a game of Simon Says, and Simon's
telling us to hit ourselves on the head. And then telling us to
hit ourselves on the head harder. And then telling us to hit ourselves
on the head harder still. And we're all the time getting angrier
and angrier that Simon's making us hit ourselves on the head so
hard. Knowing all along that Simon's pretend. That we pretend him.
Hitting ourselves as if we weren't the ones doing the hitting.
It must be for fun we do this to each other ourselves, you, myself
and I. For fun we ignore ourselves each other, dull ourselves each
other, doubt ourselves, doubt each other.
It's only me. It's only us. There is no Simon. It must be for
fun.
