I’m continually following myself around. There’s this, and it might sound odd, but there’s this metaphysical visualisation, this weird idea that I have always had. The idea is that time is something I don’t want to believe in as a concept.
Perhaps, it’s because I have always felt as if I was on a treadmill or an abstract tunnel, but it wasn’t just me on it. It was every version of me that has ever existed, and that ever will. It’s me always running to catch up to myself.
I didn’t exist because I was all of those people. I was my own standard, my own yardstick to measure any growth at all. Nobody mattered because I was always on the treadmill. No one could tell me whether there was a right or a wrong because the only direction I had was who I could be and who I had been.
It was my younger self looking at my current self and thinking: I want to be that person; it was my present self looking to this idea for my older self and wondering: how do I get there? All of it happening together.
I realised at some point, the only way to go forward was to be your own role model. I want the kid inside me to know that the people he thought should exist, in fact, do, and always have. I want to be one of those people, and hopefully pick some others like me as I go along. I guess, I have always looked at it that way.
There is no me. I don’t exist. Just the reflection, the ephemeral silhouette of what I call my life on the treadmill of how we perceive time, running one after the other, not knowing which came first. All of my selves—past, present, future—existing together.
I’m a reflection of a reflection of a reflection of myself through the metaphorical tunnel. I was always running after myself, ahead of myself, continually. Nothing else matters. Nothing else came close.
Nothing could, not even myself.