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I am an imposter. I don’t know what happened to the real me. I’m certain that at some point, the real me stop inhabiting this body, and instead… I came into being. Was I the inhabitant of some other body once? Was I a wandering spirit in need of a body? Or perhaps I am the very consciousness of this body, somehow given life. I’ve pondered this question a lot lately, even if it makes me extremely uncomfortable when I think about it. It’s not so much the feeling that I’m in the wrong body. It’s the feeling that this body has the wrong person in it.

As soon as I hit this realisation, I knew that my body was not my property. I was leasing it, borrowing it, perhaps even stealing it from the person who truly deserves it. Hours later, I started exercising. I looked up nutrition charts and installed health apps. This body was not mine, I told myself over and over. I had to take care of it. If you don’t own it, you should take good care of it.

I looked at it in the mirror, several times a day. I came to see it in a different light. I felt it, as much as I could, and when I did, it didn’t feel like I was touching _me_. I was touching _a body_.

I took such good care of it that my friends and family started to respect me for it. They praised me, when in truth, they really just appreciated the body. Would they like the person who was meant to inhabit the body? Who knows what they’re like. But if I am the imposter, then they’re almost certainly a better person than me.

Eventually, it became unusual to think of the body as _my_ body at all, especially when my body became my source of livelihood. The better care I took, the more I seemed to make, and the better my life situation became. The more I seemed to succeed in life, the more I became paranoid that the real me was going to usurp the body I was inhabiting.

What were they like? How will they find me? How will they take back their body? The questions tormented me, and underneath every fake smile, within every hollow laugh, there was that fear: how long do I have? It’s perhaps a little surprising that it took me a while to wonder what would even become of me. Would I end up stealing someone else’s body? Was that really my nature? A body thief, travelling from body to body?

The idea of ‘me’ became so confusing to think about, that the body stopped using the pronoun altogether. Now it’s just the body. It survives, it exists, and it thrives. It must be protected. It must be taken care of. In a world where ‘I’ can be anything, it can only end up being nothing.

It’s best then, that there be no 'I’ or 'me’. Only the body, and the emptiness within it.

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