Locked In

false self

I was locked into the false shell of myself. How easily that sentence trips off the tongue. How glibly I come out with it. And yet when I think of all the years of anguish and claustrophobic confusion that I have had to endure before I could even see the false self and start appreciate itself it for the horrendously grim and joyless prison that it is I can’t actually believe that I was able to go through it all. Not that I ever had any choice in the matter, I suppose…


I’m still locked into that shell, that false self, that grim and joyless prison. I’m still here after all this time. I’m not going anywhere. They don’t call it ‘locked in’ for nothing you know. Who’s ‘they’? That’s what people usually say, isn’t it. “Who’s they?” “Who’s they?” I don’t know. I don’t bloody know. There’s no one here but me. Maybe I made it all up. Maybe it’s all just in my head. Maybe it’s all part of some stupid story that I told myself. It sounds quite reasonable to me to assume that it is just a story. How would I know anyway? How could I possibly know that everything I think isn’t just a story that I have made up in order to comfort myself? That sounds more than likely to me, come to think of it. Or am I only saying this in order to comfort myself? That sounds pretty likely as well. Seeing as all I ever do – it seems to me – is lie to myself in order that I don’t have to face any kind of unpalatable truth. Isn’t this what it means to be locked in, trapped in the false shell of myself, the false shell of who I think I am? It means that I’m locked into my own lies…


I spend my time thinking all sorts of thoughts about my situation and none of them are true! It’s all just bullshit, it’s all just nonsense. And yet I’m trapped in the bullshit, I’m trapped in the nonsense. The bullshit is me, the nonsense is me. This is what it means to be trapped in the false self. This is what the false self is all about.


I want to escape from myself, I want to run away from myself and all my never-ending bullshit, but when it really comes down to it this is bullshit too. I’m only pretending that I want to escape from the bullshit of the false self. I’m afraid of what I might find out there and so I never really try too hard for fear that I might actually succeed!


I guess the thing is that there’s a kind of comfort in the bullshit thoughts that I keep on thinking. It’s like the comfort you get from performing a very familiar routine, a thing that you have done a million million times before. It is very settling, somehow. It’s reassuring. So the bullshit thoughts are bullshit alright but it feels good to be thinking them anyway. I’m fond of the bullshit thoughts, when it comes down to it.


I’m fond of the bullshit thoughts and yet they sicken me at the same time. The whole thing sickens me. There’s something truly rotten about it. I actually hate myself for it, for being so fond of the bullshit – so fond that I know I’ll never give it up. I despise myself for being so weak. I despise myself for being so fond of all the crappy old thoughts that I keep on thinking, for being too cowardly to give them up. What does this say about me, after all? It says that there isn’t a bit of integrity in me. Not a shred. I don’t even believe in the bullshit that I keep coming out with. It would be different if I actually believed in it. Self–honesty is a painful business and so maybe at least I can lay claim for this little bit of integrity? My hard-won insight into what a pathetic farce my existence is. Hang onto that precious insight. Cherish it. Don’t lose it. But then again – if that’s all I have to feel good about – what does that say about me?


I’m so sick of it all at this stage. My thoughts just keep on going around in circles. I reflect on how fucked-up I am, and then I try to comfort myself with the thought that at least I have the inner honesty to see this, but then when I reflect on what I’m doing here, when I reflect on what it means to be doing this, then I can see that I’m actually SUPER fucked-up because I’m actually getting to feel good about myself for being fucked up! That’s all I’ve got to feel good about. So how fucked-up is that? But then again, at least I can see this much so that’s got to be worth something


And this is how I spend my time. Thinking thoughts like this. Going around in circles like this. And other sorts of circles too, come to think of it. All sorts of stupid, pointless circles. Spinning around and around. Rotating in vast empty space. Rotating slowly and endlessly around my own bullshit. Because I’m too afraid to see what else there might be out there…






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