So I try to be careful.įrom what I can tell, every person I inhabit is the same age as me. I've harmed people's lives in the past, and I've found that every time I slip up, it haunts me. It's hard being in the body of someone you don't like, because you still have to respect it. He hasn't gotten much sleep.Īlready I know I'm not going to like today. The voice in my head is always different. But not so addicted that he needs one as soon as he wakes up.
I'm never the same person twice, but I've certainly been this type before. I look around and know that this is his room. Somehow I know this-my name is Justin-and at the same time I know that I'm not really Justin, I'm only borrowing his life for a day. The biography kicks in, a welcome gift from the not?me part of the mind. I wake up, open my eyes, understand that it is a new morning, a new place. I am myself-I know I am myself-but I am also someone else. It's the life, the context of the body, that can be hard to grasp.Įvery day I am someone else. The body is the easiest thing to adjust to, if you're used to waking up in a new one each morning.
It's not just the body-opening my eyes and discovering whether the skin on my arm is light or dark, whether my hair is long or short, whether I'm fat or thin, boy or girl, scarred or smooth. Immediately I have to figure out who I am.
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