When I write I act a little too clever. Paint a version of myself that I want to project.

Then again if that is my

facade

what is the real me? Is there such a thing as real in this case?

Over the years I've knocked down many layers of facades to discover what I considered 

truths

. Then realized a little after that these were facades as well.

This is where someone might find it alluring to say there are no real yous! anything is valid!

I felt that urge too. I've said it plenty of times in smokey rooms with tabletops filled with empty bottles and big egos.

But that's obviously not true. It's true there's no real you, but this doesn't mean all forms of projection magically become magical. No, what I see now is that there is no real you in the conventional sense.

As in Abe will not look like I expected him to look. There's no movie character or trope to try to string together until I can point to some figure and say: now that's me.

The real Abe is not Abe at all but some eternal, endless space. Not void, because there is something there. But nothing material. It's an eternal flow. The same one that flow within all of us. We see it sometimes when al the other noise subsides.