You know how sometimes you're watching a movie and the people on the screen seem so alive, so real - more real than anyone you know, more real than you yourself have ever managed to be? As though the entire gist of their lives were contained in a handful of scenes, and yet behind it, stretching away in every direction, were a whole life time of other scenes, of moments you'll never see but can imagine anyway, imagine as clearly as if you'd known them all their lives. And you envy them their certainty, envy them knowing, so precisely, who they are.
Because you've known yourself all your life and you don't know who you are. And you sit there wishing that just once, just for a moment, just for an hour or the space of a feature, you could be that exact, that vivid.
Perhaps Sartre is right. Perhaps all existence is the search for an authenticity that doesn't exist.
I don't mind pretending. I just don't know who I'm supposed to be.