I'm thinking, and sometimes I'm wondering if I'm really
thinking or if it's "the other one" who's thinking. Or
who's orchestrating everything from behind, something
like that. Sometimes I get this kind of "reality check"
after overthinking too much, where I'm suddenly back in
the present moment, and whatever *I* was thinking, well,
*he* doesn't care that much about it. He's just watching
the room, the computer, the paper bags, and doesn't think
anything more of it.

Frankly, he's the one puppeteering all of this, but it's
hard to, well, realize it. Who's writing right now, me
or him? I can feel something at the bottom of my heart
that something is off, that I may be missing some piece
of understanding that's critical to myself, but until
now I haven't found that piece yet. But somehow it feels
that he's always waiting, unbothered, to be found. Every
now and then he's making himself known, for a couple of
minutes, before vanishing who knows where. Whenever I read
or realize something about my mind, he's surfacing again
for a little while before disintegrating again.

What I do know now, is that he is me, but not in the
way that I thought of before. I previously thought that
I was only the "image of myself" that he thought about
whenever I was reminiscing of something, but I think now
that it's something much, much deeper. It's right before
me, but somehow it doesn't want to make itself more
obvious. Whatever I grab, it withers away.

Something doesn't add up. Like, really, there's something
that I thought was always rock solid, which turns out to
be way more brittle than I could've imagined. But oddly,
it still doesn't want to break down.