1. The others
Even before that movie came out and the term was coined, I always felt my life had something Truman show-esque about it.
Every time a stranger would address themselves to me in an awkward manner, I would get that feeling. As if my own social awkwardness was mirroring their own, they would look at me with an undefined expression, not having yet decided quite what to make of me, or exactly how to classify me. Something felt staged.
It all started very early, when I was four or five. My androgyny was at its peak and it would really throw folk off.
A voice in my head would remind me that these people knew who I would inevitably become, and that was the reason for their peculiar behavior around me. They had somehow heard of my future greatness and had saved themselves a first row seat to see my talent and notoriety build up before their very eyes. That much was clear to me.
Somehow, my fame preceded even the reason for which I was to become famous.
Did they have an inkling as to exactly when that was supposed to kick in, I often wondered. And if they did, would their interference not influence my genius development, and shape it inadvertently? Perhaps even delay it?
My admiring followers would be mad, just as I would be mad, when the final reveal was made to me. I thought it was so uncool of these pre-fans of mine, letting me know what was to come, when I should probably suffer my way through regular person life until the moment my genius status was revealed.
This put terrible pressure on me, as the more admirers I encountered, the expectation grew. My life's work would have to be epic. My brilliant debut would have to be something truly amazing, unlike anything ever seen of dreamed of before.
One thing was clear, I was brought into this world to create. As to what exactly I was to deliver, I remained unclear. Should it be something tangible, solid? An oeuvre that I could hold in my hands, to touch and feel and bite my teeth into, maybe even reproduce so my proselytes could worship a physical extension of myself? Or better yet, the complete opposite. I was maybe to aim for the incorporeal, the utterly abstract, aerial. A revolutionary concept, or perhaps a visionary philosophy that would change the way we think, live and breathe.
Meanwhile these satellites, staring at me with googly star-struck eyes, seemed terrified of coming too close. Their lives' mission just to be a part of the decor, naively hoping, believing, that their role in all of this was not superfluous. Necessary, even.
Perhaps they thought they were contributing to my inspiration, feeding me bits of my masterpiece to be. By their rehearsed words, or merely by their presence, their muse-like qualities.
I started to grow impatient. With every passing day, there was another wasted day. I needed time, inspiration, and the right tools and location. And I needed all to converge at once. Timing.
This hellish and elusively perfect triangle that refused to present itself was starting to get on my nerves. Of course, I couldn't go looking for it. That would completely defeat the purpose.
Wondering what my masterpiece would be like, I often imagined I would start with the greatest novel ever written. That seemed easy and simple enough. I could only build up from there.
With the passing of time, however, a little voice grew inside me, like a tumor, starting to mumble horrible things into my psyche. Saying it feared it might be "too late for words". That a simple writing exercise, however brilliant and revolutionary, wouldn't cut it anymore. At least as a first piece.
I was clearly not aiming high enough, and that was probably why no bigger plan had yet been set into motion.
Wrong direction. I was considering lesser art forms since it was too late in life to become great at such an elevated and saturated art as literature was. Too many great ones to catch up, too many techniques to be trained in.
And then my typewriter broke down.
Even before that movie came out and the term was coined, I always felt my life had something Truman show-esque about it.
Every time a stranger would address themselves to me in an awkward manner, I would get that feeling. As if my own social awkwardness was mirroring their own, they would look at me with an undefined expression, not having yet decided quite what to make of me, or exactly how to classify me. Something felt staged.
It all started very early, when I was four or five. My androgyny was at its peak and it would really throw folk off.
A voice in my head would remind me that these people knew who I would inevitably become, and that was the reason for their peculiar behavior around me. They had somehow heard of my future greatness and had saved themselves a first row seat to see my talent and notoriety build up before their very eyes. That much was clear to me.
Somehow, my fame preceded even the reason for which I was to become famous.
Did they have an inkling as to exactly when that was supposed to kick in, I often wondered. And if they did, would their interference not influence my genius development, and shape it inadvertently? Perhaps even delay it?
My admiring followers would be mad, just as I would be mad, when the final reveal was made to me. I thought it was so uncool of these pre-fans of mine, letting me know what was to come, when I should probably suffer my way through regular person life until the moment my genius status was revealed.
This put terrible pressure on me, as the more admirers I encountered, the expectation grew. My life's work would have to be epic. My brilliant debut would have to be something truly amazing, unlike anything ever seen of dreamed of before.
One thing was clear, I was brought into this world to create. As to what exactly I was to deliver, I remained unclear. Should it be something tangible, solid? An oeuvre that I could hold in my hands, to touch and feel and bite my teeth into, maybe even reproduce so my proselytes could worship a physical extension of myself? Or better yet, the complete opposite. I was maybe to aim for the incorporeal, the utterly abstract, aerial. A revolutionary concept, or perhaps a visionary philosophy that would change the way we think, live and breathe.
Meanwhile these satellites, staring at me with googly star-struck eyes, seemed terrified of coming too close. Their lives' mission just to be a part of the decor, naively hoping, believing, that their role in all of this was not superfluous. Necessary, even.
Perhaps they thought they were contributing to my inspiration, feeding me bits of my masterpiece to be. By their rehearsed words, or merely by their presence, their muse-like qualities.
I started to grow impatient. With every passing day, there was another wasted day. I needed time, inspiration, and the right tools and location. And I needed all to converge at once. Timing.
This hellish and elusively perfect triangle that refused to present itself was starting to get on my nerves. Of course, I couldn't go looking for it. That would completely defeat the purpose.
Wondering what my masterpiece would be like, I often imagined I would start with the greatest novel ever written. That seemed easy and simple enough. I could only build up from there.
With the passing of time, however, a little voice grew inside me, like a tumor, starting to mumble horrible things into my psyche. Saying it feared it might be "too late for words". That a simple writing exercise, however brilliant and revolutionary, wouldn't cut it anymore. At least as a first piece.
I was clearly not aiming high enough, and that was probably why no bigger plan had yet been set into motion.
Wrong direction. I was considering lesser art forms since it was too late in life to become great at such an elevated and saturated art as literature was. Too many great ones to catch up, too many techniques to be trained in.
And then my typewriter broke down.