I ran home because I didn’t like what I found on the road, namely myself. I had experienced the isolation that vicarious identification had to offer and the fallacy of independence. At first I thought I was stampeding into self-realization, but, like that rock, thinking and acting like I was flying, I was actually falling back into that storm of distractions, losing myself even deeper in a sea of misleading forms of self expressions and manifestations.
I turned from identifying myself through specific others to identifying myself through general others. No longer was I somebody’s husband, friend, brother or child, but me the activist, the organizer, the anarchist, the radical… When will it be enough to simply be me? When will I know myself without comparing myself to others or without the toe tags I depend upon?
That wall, you know the one, the one you always find yourself running into or at the foot of: it’s you, that’s you, in your own way, you… Separation from objects of reactionary vicarious self-identification feels like separation from self, but it isn’t.
