A fear I often return to is whether intimacy of the self counts. Does self-knowledge have to rebound from another, be in collaboration with someone, to give you the best look at yourself? Otherwise, might I only be hearing myself as echoes? I’m afraid that if I am not seen, heard and observed in the smallest, pettiest, most inconsequential moments of my life, my most basic nature might always be slightly concealed from me. As though my one true self is being withheld by the lack of romantic love. If I try to locate that nature myself, what comes to mind is someone whose ego can be hurt by returning home from a trip to find only junk mail has arrived in their absence. Occasionally I try to catch myself in the act of being me, listen back to the snores, coughs and murmurs captured on my sleep app. I find this self-surveillance creepy, can only bear it for a few seconds, but I do it because I am desperate for feedback. Desperate to know what it is I need to change about myself. I’m afraid that it was my fault I was alone when I heard the worst news of my life; that when I received the most joyous news in my life, again, I was alone. I’m afraid these things tell me that I have done my life wrong. I’m afraid I might not ever truly know myself. Then these thoughts clam up. I’m unable to face them and I hate myself for the indulgence. I know that if you ask yourself hard questions, you must be prepared not to find an answer. You must be prepared to admit sometimes your questions rise from self-pity, helplessness, envy.