He cut himself up into two disassociations.
His favourite was filled with rage and never let up, she was sharp of tongue and blade, made a bloody mess with her ideas, and took no prisoners
The other created colourful daydreams where he reimagined himself as many protagonists in many worlds
He tried to be himself but it never worked, never felt comfortable or natural, as if he didn’t have a, “Himself”, he could actually “Be”.
Never has he written more prolifically since he started these disassociations
When he rereads the fiction he wrote as “them”, the prose flows more naturally, with great assuredness, a little more depth, greater detachment of the here and now and more intimacy with the fictionality of the work
This voice speaking right now – the second disassociation – is more of a blank mask.
Projecting while observing.
Like an android in control of a camera which hovers around the body.
Or a book writing about the author…
He spits on the time-honoured advice to “Be Yourself”
He has never felt more artistically liberated, being something altogether alien from himself, Disassociative.