Eliza Street.

So I’m going on a little trip at the end of next month. It’s pretty much the one thing I’ve wanted to do for years and years, as long as I can remember. Whilst I know, people go on exchange all the time, I never thought that I would be the type to go. I’ve never thought of myself as outgoing or adventurous, nor did I ever think that I’d risk delaying my university degree for it. I’ve always been the type to make plans and never go through with them. Sometimes because I’m lazy, other times because the plans are just too far out reach.

Then again, I’ve always thought of myself as very ‘on my own’. I swapped schools so frequently as a child I’d never had any properly grounded friends, not until high school at least. I never really thought I needed the assistance of others to get through anything, I’d always be more than capable of getting through any situation on my own. That said, I’ve never been one without friends. My innate desire for constant validation has ensured this. Close friends on the other hand, well I have a select few. 

I originally bought a one way ticket for my little trip. Maybe it’s because I moved so much as a kid and that now I’ve lived in Sydney for so many years, I’m looking for that change that I’ve been waiting for. Or maybe it’s because I lack the ability to hold a conversation with someone without breaking the tension with an awkward joke. I’ll be away for five months, surely that’s enough time to think of some new material?

I bought my return a month later, mainly because my family found out and they weren’t pleased.  Also, there was a chance I might miss Sydney – or rather – a few people here (and near by). But the thrill, oh it was enticing. To think maybe I’d go there and never come back. To be able to start anew with no baggage. Hey that’s not outgoing at all right?

Goodness, I’ve changed. I’ve started needing people. I’ve never needed people before. There are people I miss when I don’t see them, and people that make me smile when I do.   It’s reactionary, not just me being polite. What if I were to move across the world now? I’d actually miss the people I’ve left behind. Ugh, it’s just a liability stopping me from so much.

But here I am, just before this little trip of mine that has been three years in the making, having momentary lapses in excitement.
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The Narcissist and The Character.

The Character is His own. It is singular of all others and all things. There is no dependance, nor any dependent, regardless of any external viewpoint. There is merely an Audience to observe its grandeur, to learn from its intelligence, to bask in the glow. There is no blood running through its limbs, for that would be a sign of mortality. It has no greater aim than to be itself for now and for later, an aim He believes that the audience should mimic. It itself is perfection, and any flaw is primarily decided upon to relax its viewership. 

Its interactions are theatrics presented to the Audience – to excite, to enrage, to endear. It is a character created in the vision of excellency, made to ensue envy throughout the crowd. It entertains as would a film, evoking themes of love and joy, but also heartbreak and sorrow. He is his character, but they are not one in the same. 

The Character is grand. He, however, is excellent for creating it. He is the author and designer, the playwright and director. The Character is merely based on Him. It looks alike, it sounds alike, but that is all. For He and his Character are not equal. The Character is far greater – it is more intelligent, more charismatic, more attractive and more skilled. It is created in a way to ensure that the Audience will recognize its brilliance.  

He hides behind the Character in its shadow, a place of safety and security. No harm can come to him here, for all pain is inflicted on the ever changing external. The Character is merely altered to compensate. He is brilliant enough to create magnificence from inflicted pain – the Audience respects those who have been through harm. 

Every judgement made on the Character by the audience can be manipulated by Him to ensure that its perception remains level. If it is inflicted with pity, He turns that into respect. If it is viewed as selfish, He ensures it is paltry self confidence. There is no repercussion that can be permanently harmful, only the foundation of grand tales. Every sky-scraper and every monument is build on dirt and rubble, just as every magnificent story is built on indignation and filth. 

And each story is magnificent, created in His mind. Stories of the past and maybe stories of the future, based on extensive research on the Audiences’ tastes. Birthplaces, homes, friends and relatives – all altered and lied about to create the most attractive individual. For He is a liar – a brilliant one. There is no field that is sacred in his domain, for his ability to alter the truth is matched by no one. The Character is perfect, even if He isn’t so. He lies not through his teeth, but through the Character. Every facet of the Character’s ‘personality’ is falsity based on one of His own truths. 

Whilst the Character shields him from the harm of the external, He is not shielded by the residue from the Character. There is a constant feeling of guilt, of shame and, more heavily, the fear that he might be revealed. His ability to lie is frightening for Him – he can no longer tell the truth as it feels unnatural. He is a puppet-master, for now and forever and he will die under the disguise of the Character. He will feel no love as he feels no pain, for He has no interaction with the Audience and the external. As a father lives through his children, He lives through the Character. His creative intelligence and brilliance comes at this cost, and it is far too late to break the fourth wall. He is alone, and only feels the inside of the Character’s mask. 

The costume of the Character remains as attractive and endearing as it was and will always be. Underneath, however, unseen by the external, the hems fray. The Character will die, either due to the revelation of His existence by a member of the audience, or due to the residue seeping through and destroying Him. He will die under the mask, unseen by the world, with the name of the Character etched upon the tomb.