I fear I may be disintegrating. Maybe I am not. Let me explain.
There is me. There is Facebook me. Social me. Badminton me. Twitter me. blip.fm me. Flickr me. Blog me. Photoblog me. Photographer me. Work me. There is lover me and flatmate me and every other me. Walker, climber, cyclist, writer, reader, foody and book collector me.
Pick a me. Any me. Fan me out and choose. Pick a me at random.
Delve. Dive. Hold me close so that I abstract. Swirl me in a test tube and test me.
Each me is fundamentally me. And in context, complete.
But thats just not me. I am ever so much more. I think I am. And its self-evident... isn't it?
Look! Behind me, behind the sliver of me in sharp relief, lie a hundred other me's, shadowed by your singular awareness.
And yet, combined, contained in this momentary, fleeting, just out of the box, here for a second me I am somehow lessened and hidden like a thousand pages stacked with only their edges to see. Words, pictures and diagrams, the real and the unreal of me, in plain obstructed view.
There is me the book. And each page therein is me, yet so much more me than the whole, with its impression and cover and carefully constructed profile. Each page is the story, the race, the moment of solitude, the pain and despair and the savage joy and the mortal fear. Each page is the plot and non-plot, the poem and picture, the link in a link of links that combine and coalesce and swarm and drive down through the thick and the thin, through perception and subjection, tightening and binding and coming to a ... point. To me.
That is me.
And what is me is the you. But not just the one you, but the many yous, with your stories, your games, your tumultuous tragedies and barbaric victories. The yous that touch the me at many different points.
Let me explain.
Pick a you. Any you...