On Identity

Who are you. Really? When you’re standing in front of the unblinking reflection in the mirror.

Its a difficult question.

What do you see when you wipe the glass clear. A face. Recognisable in appearance. But inside? Who is really there? What thoughts, what hopes, dreams, belief? The eyes are dulled in the reflection, devoid of the spark that should make them engage.

Finding a place is so often done without thought; people are doing things not because it may be right, but because it fits into convention and expectation. Perhaps they don’t want to think about it? Maybe drifting from place to place, job to job, is the ideal?

But perhaps people have low expectations. Or no expectations. Achievement is a reduced scale; the abililty to save enough for a new car, or holiday, or a promotion above the head of a colleague. All minor self obsessions, a little people following Narcissus with blinkered lack of wonder.

Are my hopes any different? My dreams? Who can say. I don’t have the scope to read your mind. I can’t scan your brainwaves for thoughts – I’ve tried, of course, but the TV needs a new aerial. For now its just observation. And TV.

TV’s shared consciousness is a comfort. I know how to fit in here; so do you. Passive participation. You can even drink tea at the same time. And then, tomorrow, around the water cooler – a conversation with those with whom you might otherwise refuse to speak.

Of course this ignores the elite. The elite are those on screen. The stars. People for whom personal identity is fame – at least to their fans – whose adoration and following supplies their place in the world, without concern for individuality.

In the mirror. Beneath the surface. Inside. What is the identity. What place in the world. What value the person?

What person?

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