Unknowable me

I’ve always enjoyed being at the center of mystery, or at the very least, of the unknown.
Or unknowable.
I don’t let too many people into this barricaded mental compound.
I’ve alway been prone to shy away from full disclosure and effusive self-confessions. You won’t find me sitting on a trashy Dr. Phil or Oprah guest panel (sorry, that’s the best I can do, I don’t spend much time in front of daytime TV). In fact, I relish the act of not being easy to know. Mystery is our greatest tool for the attainment of anonymous social power. The less people know of you, the more (assuming you don’t come across as a raging psychopathic creep) they are likely to fill in the blanks with all kinds of cool bullshit as they handily sketch your character by filling in all the blanks you don’t. It’s human nature, of course. We tend to elevate that which we don’t know. Often, we elevate it to a much higher level of intrigue than it deserves. The unknown is actually mundane. We substitute heroic and lofty qualities when the void of mystery is presented to us. People, lacking clear or observable knowledge, tend to quietly perceive and absorb extra doses of non-verbal cues when the entirety of the picture is lacking. For humans need the whole picture or they are incapable of resting. If there is any question at all about you, we will resort to formulating an opinion based on everything we can see or hear….your clothes, your hair, your speech, your expressions and affect. All this data are processed through our interpretative sieves and we spit out a rudimentary personality sketch that tells us all about you. Its accuracy is dubious but occasionally we may even surprise ourselves.

If you can create mystery while simultaneously transmitting a meta-vibe of coolness and casual aloofness, better yet. The opinion and impression others construct of you will be heightened!

That is my simple game.
I hang back, try not to say much, try not to commit to self-revelation, yet still carefully weave an illusion, a web displaying certain elements which hopefully lead others to a hypnotic image of myself which is not entirely accurate, and in fact, probably very inaccurate.

No one knows me. Not even I.

I play my cards so well I even have myself fooled. Sometimes I wonder if I have the slightest fucking clue who I am. Funny that for someone with such mysterious affectations, I choose to blog about this shit. My guess is that I live out everything on this blog that I fail to do in real life. I write too much, I say too much…I am shameless. It’s astounding and a bit eerie, especially those moments I realize I’ve written something that leaves me wondering where the thoughts originated and if I am who I really am.

Has my mysterious facade become untenable? Is it alive and rebelliously resisting my control?
I wonder if I am the Dr. Frankenstein of my soul, this hideous creature, this patchwork of learned and abhorrent behaviors manifested as a quiet guy hiding behind a sullen blog which allows him to express his demonic turmoil?

Has the mystery become a marauding life form of its own, trampling over the citizenry of this quaint hamlet that I call my psyche. Have I fed it too well and created a HAL computer which threatens to commandeer this vessel and send me adrift into the nether regions of infinite nothingness, beyond the planets and the stars?