The mind is a fascinating little device. Many see it as an assortment of functions. Cognitive functions crank away while thoughts and ideas bloom at a mere whim. Some despise it, disgusted by how it reveals their hidden nature. Geniuses and fast thinkers are opposite; their thoughts operate at the speed and function of a calculator crunching complex equations. They rely on it in that way. For many, the mind is a comfort zone—the only place where they can be their truest. Life outside is spent keeping secrets and dodging people for fear of ridicule, thus thoughts are all they can trust. Some people report the existence of an inner monologue, a narrated accompaniment to their lives.

There’s a way to visualize it. Picture a library filled to the brim with hardbacks. Trinkets and mementos add life between the stacks of books. Soft florescent light bounces off of polished brown wood. You sit in a comfortable brown lounge chair. The Interviewer is across from you. You can’t quite detail a description of them, much less a face. But regardless, there’s something familiar here. Back and forths feed into a microphone hanging just out of sight. A camera hovers over the interviewer’s shoulder. “Action” and “cut” have never been called, yet the red light glows like the eternal flame. Sometimes, Interviewer and equipment are replaced by a group of friends, but that’s a story for another time.

The never-ending interview is a place where thoughts are purely honest and feelings concise. It’s the ultimate safe space. Your words will never be more explicit than in here. Throughout your waking hours, everything is revealed. Brilliant character studies, from your best friend to the kitchen worker you see maybe once or twice a week. The interviewer will silently drag a cigarette while you explain how sudden recollection of the time you were mean to someone in third grade devolves to a borderline panic attack. Maybe you’ll monologue in lengthy detail about the impact men have had on you. It’s the exclusive, all-inclusive tell-all.

You try to imagine how the final cut will turn out. The eventual grand premiere of the documentary. When the audience outside the mind quiets down to listen to what you have to say. Will your words be cut down, turning eloquent speeches into bad black out poetry? Will the absence of a dire word, or the presence of a brand new one, strip statements of their true meaning? Will the audience turn their ears as usual or will there be applause in your name? It would be idealist to think that anything but the former will happen. But someday, perhaps someday, the Interviewer will make the right cut. And your words will be their true brilliant self.

But what about the Interviewer? Who are they? What makes it so easy to dissect your soul to them? Well, the answer is obvious and quite frankly cliche. But cliches are cliche for a reason, and dressing up the answer is nothing short of dishonest. You look across the space dividing you from the interviewer. There’s not much to see, but you make out a pair of eyes you’ve only seen in the mirror. And when the realization sets in, you’re unmoved. There’s no one you can quite open up to like yourself.

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