She, from a young age, understood that she possessed an interiority complex. That, no matter where she went, all roads lead back to herself, to the worlds within.
I don’t exist out there, not really. Out there, I am a ghost, a carefully assembled construct, a projection. I am all these things, and I am not. Out there.
Yet inside herself, she felt real, or closer to the source of realness. She didn’t name and label it as an interiority complex until much later, when she was twenty-three. By that point, she had constructed a number of labyrinths in which she wandered around, as a sort of pastime. She even listed as one of her favorite recreational pastimes on a form she had to fill out for a job application: wandering around in self-made labyrinths. She wanted to fit in. Then she didn’t try anymore. She fit out.
Only within myself, only then…the external world struck her as conditions meant to kill time. Even when was part of it, engaging, participating, she didn’t feel as if the real her was involved. A projection, an emissary, slices of cinematic projection that represented different aspects of her. Never her. Really and fully her.
I will never be of this world. Interiority is where I exist. No zip code. No geographical location. I exist where I am not. Embracing interiority was the key. Know that whoever you see out in the world, reflected back to you in mirrors, or reflected back to you through the approval or judgments or confirmations of others…none of those are you. You are somewhere else. Within. And one day when this body in which you are housed perishes, your interior self, the one who had no place in the world, will merge with the blessed everything and nothing and there will be no more naming, no more trying to place oneself…all will be abolished and you will be you, freed.