When I was learning about art as a child, I was fascinated with the Mona Lisa. I didn't think she was at all beautiful, even though that's what the textbooks insisted. And I wasn't too interested in her relationship with Leonardo. No, like most people, I was intrigued by her duplicity. I would pick up a slip of paper and cover up half her face, then the other half. Smile, no smile. Smile, no smile.
We do a lot of talking about authenticity and hear a lot of people championing "being true to yourself." Despite the mantras, it's pretty obvious that most people have two faces, or even more than two. One we show to the world most of the time, wearing it easily after the identity storm of adolescence is past, shrugging it on like a familiar sweater. In fact, we may be under the impression that it is the 'real me.'
But then there are those moments.
The other self barges through somehow, shattering glass on its way into our world. It comes when we're alone, or jumps into view in unguarded instants, like a sadistic jack-in-the box. The event is usually embarrassing, as if you've suddenly had to admit that you have a man-eating monster chained up in the back yard. And when it breaks loose (usually not in a spurt of heroic lovingkindness, but in a flood of anger or depression or meanness), you have to ask yourself,
Which one is really me?
We do a lot of talking about authenticity and hear a lot of people championing "being true to yourself." Despite the mantras, it's pretty obvious that most people have two faces, or even more than two. One we show to the world most of the time, wearing it easily after the identity storm of adolescence is past, shrugging it on like a familiar sweater. In fact, we may be under the impression that it is the 'real me.'
But then there are those moments.
The other self barges through somehow, shattering glass on its way into our world. It comes when we're alone, or jumps into view in unguarded instants, like a sadistic jack-in-the box. The event is usually embarrassing, as if you've suddenly had to admit that you have a man-eating monster chained up in the back yard. And when it breaks loose (usually not in a spurt of heroic lovingkindness, but in a flood of anger or depression or meanness), you have to ask yourself,
Which one is really me?
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