The Self

Some nights I think I might be you,

Just from a different perspective.

And other nights I feel so uniquely individual;

And so against the mainstream,

That I am certain that

I am me and there could only be one of me in all of the known universe. 

And some nights, I feel like a potato, with a caffeine addiction, and an iron deficiency, whose purpose in life is to melt into my couch, while binging the perfect story. 

Some nights, I like to pretend that I don't believe in soulmates because of how big the world is. I like to say, “even if you are romantically compatible with .03% of the earth's population, that will still leave you with about 3185 people to choose from. To think that only one or two people are compatible with us is a logical fallacy.” What a schmuck. 

But, on nights like tonight, when I get swept up in her, I start to wonder if I was wrong about the soulmate thing. I start to think that it might be a mistake to rationalize love and quantify it using probability and statistics. Seems like a no-brainer now. 

She says that I am her mirror. And that she is mine. I get it. I really do. Or, I think I do. 

Maybe she is the one mirror that can reflect that most honest representation of who I am and who I could be. . . Maybe that's what a soulmate is. Huh. I never thought about it like this before. How neat. 

And maybe, the self is a unique wandering perspective discovering the world, and in the process, discovering what ‘the self’ does or doesn't mean to them in this world . . .

Maybe I should really stop starting sentences with maybe . . . Maybe not, though . . . ?

Maybe, the most I feel like myself is when I am aspiring to be something else—someone else. 

. . . What the hell is that about?

-CH 8/18/25