“A man may don many garments—some ill-fitting, some absurd—stitched from the words of others. But the cut of one’s true self cannot be tailored by another’s hand.” bb grey-hyde
“Dr. J. E. Kyll and Mr. Feels: A Treatise on Overthinking and Emotional Minefields”
The hour finds me in contemplation, my mind still burdened by the echoes of last night’s discourse with Gwendolyn. I had intended only to extend an apology for the two text messages I had left her earlier—messages that, upon reflection, did not resemble me in the slightest. They were fragmented, distant, like the fevered scribblings of a man estranged from himself.
Why? What force had twisted my words into something so alien?
I believe I now know. It was not merely her words from the night prior—it was the weight of them, the grim and unrelenting conviction with which they had been delivered. The severity of her judgment left me stunned, my mind reeling through the long hours of the day, wrestling with the portrait she had painted of me.
A villain. A monster. A thing of ill-intent, deserving neither place nor peace.
I sat with this—truly sat with it—for the first time in years. Allowed it to settle into my bones, to take root in the shadows of my mind. I tried on the garment she had woven for me, wore it like a cloak, and found that it poisoned the very air I breathed. My countenance darkened, my spirit recoiled. It was as if, for a time, I had become the thing she saw. And in that state, I could feel nothing but loathing—not merely for the accusation but for myself.
It is a strange phenomenon, this transmutation of self-perception. To believe, even for a moment, that one is a creature of malice. It is enough to send a man into despair, to make him question the very foundation of his being.
And so, in desperation or defiance, I reached out to her. Perhaps in search of absolution, or perhaps simply to remind myself that I am not this specter she imagines. In speaking, I shattered the illusion. The spell broke, and I with it.
I am not that man.
We are all prone to illusions, but there are those within us—deep, immutable truths—that do not bend to the weight of another’s perception. I am no saint, but nor am I the wretched creature she describes. We all wear masks, adopt roles, slip into personas, but at the core—stripped of all artifice—we know who we are.
And so, the day moves forward, indifferent to my musings. Time will not wait for me to untangle my grievances, to reconstruct my sense of self. It marches on, and if I do not keep pace, I shall be left behind, scrambling to regain lost ground.
But I am over it now.
For the moment.
Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. A cruel jest, given my present state—a battlefield strewn with unspoken words and unfulfilled expectations. But such is the nature of life. It does not concern itself with our struggles.
And yet, there is always the possibility of grace. Of unexpected mercy. Of something sweet hidden in the madness.
So, I shall press forward. And hope.
To the reader: my attempt at how Dr. Jeykll might have written a dilemma with his girlfriend in today’s context with a styling typical of his era.
BB Grey--musings 