Back in the early days, when I was young and energetic and more than a little naive, I wore a suit and tie to work every day. My favorite ensemble from my collection of business attire comprised a dignified, light-grey three-piece business suit, starched white shirt, brightly patterned red tie, and highly polished black loafers. Whether I had anything to put in it or not, I regularly carried home with me each day a thin black Samsonite briefcase—irrefutable evidence that I belonged in the executive suite. I was under the mistaken impression that “the image makes the man.” It was much later that I realized the world operated on an entirely different principle: “the man makes the image and tries desperately to climb into it.” The first thing I did when I wore my costume to the office was to take off the jacket, put it on a hanger, and place it on the back side of my office door. I liked the way I looked when I wore the two remaining pieces of my three-piece suit. The vest, especially, sculpted the image I thought I presented: a no-nonsense, hard-working young man who was serious about sprinting into a future full of spectacular opportunities. In hindsight, though, I think the image was considerably more comedic: a young, inexperienced, buffoon who was easily manipulated and misled into thinking he had important contributions to make to a world that had dismissed his laughable misconceptions about himself long before he was born. My fragile self-confidence, always brittle and subject to being shattered in a stiff breeze, was an exercise in pointlessness in the face of the hurricane winds of young adulthood. I was a relatively believable actor, though, so I managed to muscle my way through seemingly endless crises of confidence by pretending to be someone I was not. I hid my quivering lower lip beneath blankets of false bravado. During the many years of pretense—while I focused on making my counterfeit self appear real—I lost sight of who hid behind my masks. I cannot tell which version of me is authentic and which ones are simply products I created from pieces I found in books or films or lifelike models. Who am I, really? If I could strip away all the synthetic pieces, who would remain? I wish I knew, but I am afraid I might find authenticity intolerable. Are we all, in fact, actors? Do we act out of necessity, knowing that somewhere in the recesses of our mind is an empty form that can live only through mimicry?
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My thoughts spin between rage and humor. I need more rest.
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All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms;
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lin’d,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well sav’d, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.William Shakespeare
