Even from a very young age I looked at life from a third person point of view. It would just happen, mostly when alone, when I hadn’t been talking for awhile, starting with a wobbly wonky echo in my head like my soul’s pushing its way through my skull, following my every move and gesture from a distance [bit back and over my shoulder]. In complete silence my mind would suddenly split up in two and start a lively conversation. It wasn’t that I liked looking at myself that way. It scared me, like I wasn’t really real or that someone or something was taking over. I never tried to outrun it though, or find my parents in the hope it would dissapear. I guess in a certain way I did want to ‘meet’ this spectator of my own life. As an artist I always considered it my greatest power: I was able to do things beyond my comfort zone, never worried about the consequences, never really able to get hurt, because I was never really there. Like someone else was operating me, constantly living from one high to another making it impossible to land. My therapist sent me to rehab where I’ve spend 60 days to finally meet myself again.
Now, whenever I experience my spectator making its presence felt, it makes me want to write. Following in my father’s footsteps, I found a cheap place to live in Bali to write, yoga, eat, repeat.
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