Whoa there! It’s me. Here. Now. I am me…me.
But who else would I be if not myself?
Well, let’s grasp at something philosophical, say, to help “me” figure it out.
I think…therefore, ah ha! Yes, I think — therefore, I am.
But what I am, well, I haven’t the faintest of a clue. That won’t do. That clever little Descartes, his witty bits of thought prancing about like a cat — crafty devils, those ones, oh yes indeed — that improbably jumps to and from and off into freedom just the second you think you have it firmly by the whiskers.
Perhaps I’m thinking too much. Am I “therefore” too much myself?
Impossible. Lunacy. An utter absurdity…of just the right magnitude that it could just be—oh, but does it think? Does being rest solely on the presence of thinking? I despair as the plot thickens—though it certainly could not be me — not at least until I’ve determined if I’m me, not to mention if I’m a volume of me that simply can’t be.
The matter seems quite plain, really: I’m either your regular John Humdinger over here, frantically coming down from a pill-induced high that’s pushed the very limits of my self-awareness or I might just conceivably be the massively famous, often eccentric — and wildly handsome, might I add, rawr — actor Jeff Goldblum having quite an exceptional stretch of lucid thought for the first time in several years.
Why don’t I role-play? Yes, of course. Wear the shoe. See how it fits. Wear two, as it were. How can one know how a shoe fits when he errantly chooses not try it alongside its partner? Was there a, uh um uh um um—how would you phrase it?—uh um, oh yesyesyes a shoe concern of some sort desperate to trade off its orphaned loafers that convinced us of this mockery? The highest order of balderdash.
Oh, why hello there! Pardon my wandering. Come on now; we shake hands here. Yessir, you are correct: I am in fact the eldest Humdinger boy. Please, call me Jay. John is my father. Oh, he’s doing just fine. Getting on in years and crankier than ever, but still enjoys a good ballgame when he feels up to a night at the park.
Well, that was easy. Problem solved. I’m John Humdinger, clearly losing his cool from some wayward trip and I’ll no doubt start reeling in my faculties as I continue to come down from this unfortunate psychedelic adventure.
…Perhaps too easy? Too smooth? Almost like it’s practiced, a refined skill.
Almost like…I could be highly acclaimed actor Jeff Goldblum tossed into a pool of just-cogent-enough internal dialogue so dense that I’ve barely the odd second to bring my head water until the magic of my every day life finally carries me away into the clouds and sets me gently upon the stream of consciousness that taxies me from one life event to the next in a wonderful embrace of aloofness.
Or so I am thinking…which means, not that I am, but that I am…aming, even being. Ah yes, now I see Mr. Descartes, you delightful rapscallion of critical thinking, what you’re doing there.
In fact, I see…therefore, I…was? Will be?
Oh my, this might take a while.
***
(This story is developing. We will provide more information once Mr. Goldblum, Mr. Humdinger, or whoever the individual locked in the bathroom talking to themselves for the last 15 hours emerges. We appreciate your patience.)
