Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.
Oh, Oscar, this is why I love you so much. You dive into my brain, read the threads of my subconcious and spit them back out, (one hundred years ago? Yes, perhaps Mr. Wilde has had an adventure in the TARDIS. Just saying.)
I am a mish-mash collage of other people, visually and mentally and socially and psychologically. I feel like the only thing that is my own is my writing. Even when influenced, it is always my own. And my dancing too. Nobody moves the way that I do. But what I read and how I read it? What I wear and what I think about? What I eat, drink and do? A mimicry. A Batesian mimicry, (if you know biology well, you will know that a Batesian mimicry is when an organism assumes the danger signals of another organism but it actually harmless.) It’s sort of like a pinata; YOU are a pinata covered in beautiful, sparkly and colorful crepe-paper and filled to the brim with candy and sugar… I can cover myself in the same crepe-paper but I am already hollow, no sweets can get inside of me, not really. And when you bash me open with a stick, I will bleed only air.
Or perhaps I am not the only mimicry. Maybe we are all mimicries, each copying another, so that we are all essentially bit of each other. Well that brings a whole new meaning to Leaves of Grass, doesn’t it?