How many alter-egos do you have?
Aggressive, passionate and spontaneous, it is the decider. If The Head makes up her mind, the mind must do nothing but comply. Decisions taken by The Head are usually impulse-driven and rash – the stronghold, the ticking clock, the time bomb of imperfection. It keeps hungry, unsatisfied and reckless in behavior, letting the instincts take over where social submission fails. It is the keeper of personality, the harbinger of pain, the root of the soul – tangled and twisted, strong and life-giving, powerful with emotion. Repressed.
Fun-loving, kind, generous and good-humoured, Joos is the play that Jack needs. It is the balance, the Yang, the White, the partner, the feminine half the makes the whole in a day. Joos is a free spirit, bound to nothing, answerable to no one. Joos is a friend, a confidante, a comrade, a partner in pleasure and crime. Joos is the wind, the ocean, the loosened tie, the bottle of rum to ease the rough road and calm the mind. Joos is the spirit.
The unconditional lover, the reader of temperaments, the passions of desire, they all blend into The Virgin. The Virgin doesn’t conform to social etiquette; it plays the game of hearts. It teases, caresses, worships, and weeps uncontrollable at the loss of love. It is attention seeking and quick on its feet. It wants to provide but doesn’t want to belong. It needs to fly but wants the string attached – to be tugged on gently, occasionally, to let it know it is loved. It turns and twists, like a wreath of smoke, surrounding you, but never really there. Listening only to the whims of the faintest winds.
That ocean of imagination that the mind dips into for help during turmoil, Ink is the provider of distraction. It is the warmth of idea, the giver of strength, the spark behind the glazed eye that sees beyond the purple visions of dreams. It is the prayer that is answered in art – feeding inspiration, creating worlds that have never been seen, living lives that have never been lived. It is a strive towards perfection, it is obsessed with flaw, it is the light at the end of the tunnel you see every time you die that little death in the heart. It is the storm in the brain. It is the storyteller.
The Hermit is the darkness around the flame. Recluse and ascetic, it meditates on the possibility of potential and life in a different whirlpool of possibilities. It speaks in whispers and walks on all fours. It is savage and heavy, and hangs dead over the threshold of the mind. It knows no people, speaks no tongue, holds no possession. It belongs to no one. It just sits there, lights dim, moving back and forth, pupils dilated, waiting for the cloud to rain down and the moment to pass. It is the escape.
Little is the neglected child peering through the eyes of a lost dream. It scampers though crowds, searching for a way out, or a way in, or both. It is the guardian of tears, the fire of carelessness, and the victim of disregard. Little is the compulsion of inborn habit, the instinct of existence, the virtue of being. It fusses to have its way, it breaks down at insult, and it fights against dejection. It sits there, woozy with confusion, empty of understanding, caught in the headlights as others give in to norm. Little is the space joining dots. Little is the cry.
How many alter-egos do you have?