I’m not myself and yet I’m not anyone else either. I’m not anyone. Or anything either. I’m an all-encompassing zero. I wake up sadly, full to the brim with quickly fading dreams.
My dreams aren’t me of course. They never are. Nothing’s me. ‘What exactly does it mean to be a person?’ I ask myself, as I clamber wearily out of my bed. ‘What kind of things might that possibly entail? ‘I’m asking myself these questions purely by habit at this stage, however – it’s a ritual, nothing more. It’s an empty pointless ritual and I’m mocking myself with everything I do.
It’s only words you see, the same old words every time. I go through the rigmarole of it, driven by pure force of habit. Habit is a very powerful thing after all – it is for me, at any rate! Habit is everything as far as I’m concerned. Habit is my whole world – it’s the alpha and the omega.
I am the habit of myself. My idea of myself persists by pure momentum – no active principle is involved. I’ve said it once, so I’ll say it again. I did it once so I might as well repeat it. I’ve started this nonsense and so I’ll just have to carry on with it.
I’m fond of repeating myself, as you would quickly find out if you ever got to know me. You’d find out quickly enough, I’d say. You’d find out fine and fast. You’d probably remark on the fact – why wouldn’t you, after all? Why wouldn’t you?
‘What exactly does it mean to be human bean?’ I ask myself solemnly. ‘What kind of stuff might this entail?’ It’s not that I actually care, you understand – it’s just my empty little ritual. it’s just ‘a thing that I do’, a terribly tedious formula which I like to repeat on occasions like this…
