What is it that makes us human? The accident nature caused by allowing some monkeys to stand up more than others?
The habit of watching oneself in the mirror and seeing in it a “me” instead of an “you”, or even more pathologically a “he” or a “she”?
Arriving at this point, I decided to cease my enumeration as I struck upon what I like to call a potential fountain of words. For I entertain the idea that I can find a reason to call myself a man rather than a donkey in my probing a minefield in which I usually end up discovering mere rocks, gritting my mind into sand-stone.
One achievement of our modern age is this certainty of asserting that the person on the other side of the mirror is… me.
Dot because there can be no proceeding further from here. Comma and reverse the angle.
Yet, should one look closer, one might discover that the similarity of features is only coincidental. I am not looking at me, because I don’t know what this “me” is, at this particular moment I am actually staring at “you”, can’t you see me winking with my left eye? This would be the right eye for you as you are situated on the “Other side” – which “By the way” (pardon the pun) you can reach without “slitting your throat”, breaking the mirror should suffice.
Because I deem my writings incoherent enough to make for a clinical case, let me take another step and spot a “he” behind this deceiving reflection of mine. The dark-eyed, yellow-haired, red-skinned, transparent mate whom all of my friends know, and, up to this moment, I thought I knew as well. How did I come about to live in this guy’s shoes, or to be more accurate, in his red skin? Well, the answer is unfortunately too easy: circumstances, dear ladies and dear gentlemen, nothing more and nothing less than that.
You know your circumstances well enough already:
They are all around you, binding you, strapping you down while the pendulum is being lowered by an invisible hand.
Lately, I found myself blinded by a leather piece called self-consciousness through the hairs of which I can only have glimpses of the whizzing blade.
Having gotten so far into my biography, let me break honest with you; I started writing this because I have been asked to give a short account of something relating with my particular circumstances:
Romanian, crossroads between Orient and the Western world, an amalgam of Greek, Latin, Slavonic, Turkish and God only knows what other culture, for they say He is omniscient.
Coming back to what was requested of me, the name that “struck my ear in the most pleasant manner” (here I take the liberty of quoting a Romanian playwright in one of his characters’ definition of “music”) was that of Ovid.
It probably resulted from the fact that he was an exile like myself, though these confounded musings tell me otherwise. I cannot and will not ignore my multifaceted self, in those rare moments I step on a mine and there it is:
Blinding light embracing me and revealing not me (for who can say nowadays that in trying to follow the command `Know thyself` one met with success?), but my shadow so that I could at least fancy I have a rhomboidal shape.
And I swear on Ovid’s pink-elephant-checkered-boxer-shorts, one feels great knowing one is not a circle.
Time for me to end this by apologising and offering you an alternative to grabbing a cane and coming after me: All of this is after all nothing more than a circumstance in which you found yourself entangled; an unlucky one, I admit, but one you should be able to free yourself from easily.
Shake these letters off and walk on: You will run into another circumstance.
I shouldn’t worry – I am quite certain it’s already out there waiting for you.
Fare well, my friend.