May 16, 2014 Essays

“Identity is, at its core, simply a matter of who we choose to appear as at any moment.”

I found this quote scrawled on the back of a crumpled prescription blank, written in my own hand. It sounds like something I’d say, though I don’t remember writing it.

Identity is such a slippery thing, like the silvery, inter dimensional goo that makes up the universe, so some say. I have become a professional identity thief over the years, but instead of stealing boring things like strings of numbers, I steal faces, dreams, whole personas, from parallel worlds.

Once or twice, they’ve been major hauls, faces that I’ve never actually given back. More often, it’s a bauble here, a trinket there, like some wingless magpie with an overstuffed treasure chest of subtle human parts.

It’s important to know who you are, or at least who you’re pretending to be, when walking between the worlds, or when summoning something to this one that maybe you shouldn’t.

Written by Tara