‘Have you ever been trapped in your own mind?’ I ask theatrically, in my darkest, most sepulchral tones. I’m sharing an understanding with you. Or you are sharing it with me – it works both ways simultaneously, as you know. As I know you know, and as I know you know I know. It’s like being members of the secret club. Only it’s not. Trapped, trapped in your head so you can’t ever get out. What a nightmare, huh? What a freaking nightmare. Trapped in that most dismal of all possible prisons, your very own mind. You’re forced to believe in your own stupid beliefs – can you imagine anything more ignominious? Talk about someone making a fool of you. Or something making a fool of you because your mind isn’t a person – it’s more like some kind of nasty echo. It’s a dead thing, a ghostly presence, and you can’t ever get away from it. It will follow you to the end of your days, and dog your every step! Sometimes it will frighten you of course and then you’ll want to run. You’ll bolt like a frightened rabbit and your mind will take off after you like a greyhound. It will pursue you to the ends of the earth so it will – you will be running away screaming and your mind will be hot on your trail. At other times your mind will be content merely to mock you and make fun of you – it will belittle you and humiliate you and you will have to endure it, because there is nothing else you can do. If this mind of yours doesn’t torment you in one way then it will torment you in another and so you might as well just get used to it!
It’s very important to nurture and protect the self, isn’t it? That’s what I always say. It’s very important to be constantly taking care of the self just in case something bad happens to it. No one wants that. By Jingo, no. We certainly don’t want that. We have to keep on looking after that old self, doing stuff for it, looking out for it, that kind of thing. Furthering its ends, protecting its toxic and utterly nauseating fantasies. Life’s a funny old business what with all this ceaseless scurrying around protecting the self and its wretched fantasies. We’re scurrying about from morning till night. I’m not judging anyone here, I really amn’t. I’m scurrying around the whole time myself so I am. I’m scurrying here, scurrying there, going about the business of the self, doing my level best to fulfil its fantasies, fretting when I’m not able to – which is pretty much all the time for me. I’m not very successful in that particular department – or any other department come to that. How successful are people in fulfilling the fantasies of the monomaniacal self, generally speaking, I wonder. Do they make a good job of it? Most people, I mean. The majority of people. Probably they do. Probably they are quite successful, I expect. Why wouldn’t they be? How hard can it be? Not that I’d know of course. Not that I’d know…
It’s very important to nurture and protect the self, of course. We all know that. Every dumb ejit knows that. Show me someone who doesn’t know that! Heh, heh, heh. We all know that. Does it help us though, that’s what I’d be wondering. We think we are pretty smart, but so what? We all think we are pretty smart – those of us that do think that of course. Some of us don’t! No sir, some of us don’t think that at all but there you go. That’s how the cookie crumbles. Most people think they’re pretty damn smart, let’s put it like that. Languishing in the prison, languishing in that most dismal of prisons. That most dismal of all possible prisons. It doesn’t matter how smart you are then, does it? It doesn’t exactly help you much then and I think I would be correct in saying that. Please correct me if I’m wrong but I don’t think I am. No, I don’t think I am wrong at all. ‘Have you been ever trapped have you ever been trapped in your own mind?’ I ask again, ingenuously. Have you ever, you ever. Just you and your echo. It’s hot on your heels of course. It’s a nasty little echo and when you shout at it it shouts back. It’s pretending to be you, you see. Or you are pretending to be it. Which is it now, make up your mind! Quick, quick! Or perhaps it doesn’t matter. Perhaps there is no difference either way…
