Chris Truman isn’t himself. He has ideas for his blog, Creative Type, but the page won’t oblige—the words won’t stick. The stories he’s been telling himself—his personal narrative—are not his own. Perhaps his mind is all made up. His life a mask—the world an insufferable ball.
We have countless ways to hide. Truman sleeps. There is something to be said for silence, the warmth of inactivity. You’re weightless in a dream, given to nonsense. A pilot with no manifest. We spend the better part of our lives asleep; the worst happens with our eyes wide open. A possible post? His family might get worried. Is Chris OK? Taking his meds?
A blog, like a psychological history, sees many revisions. Inspiration takes time. You think you’re finished before the moment arrives. Where do you think this thought is coming from? Therapists have a way with words. They’re all about self-talk. Truman never tires of writing about therapy, second only to writing.
Truman looks to the past for answers but finds his strength in question. He recalls his project—to reveal his true nature in the fictionalized account of his friend Chuck Snoad. He’ll pick up where he left off. Publish when he’s ready. His therapist might enjoy a reading. She could analyze the document. Judge its authenticity.
Charles B. Snoad 