Who is the third persona? There is a whole who’s on first, what’s on second kind of discourse exchange trying to answer that question. But for those who are already confused, that debate is safely tucked away in Academia, so no worries I’d expect you to untangle that now.
I ask this because I used to journal with some sort of assumed third persona in mind—the assumption that this über-personality was always both anxiously awaiting for whatever I’d write and also ready to pounce and critique. But now I realize that I’ve invested too much power into this persona. And so I return to my original question: who is this third persona?
Since I don’t know (and since I’m trying to liberate myself from trying to astonish and please this unknown entity), maybe I can just try to do what I wanted to do along: write. Articulate my thoughts. Make sense of what plagues me.
Back when I was trying to please this third persona, I’d write about my longing for a boy…over time the boy would change, but the point of my misery was always the same. I was caught up in the longing for him to love me, for me to have a chance to love him (rather that long to love him)…but I think what I longed more than love was an escape from the loneliness I constantly feel.
The problem with my writing, though, was how I tried to frame precisely how I felt through a vision of how I wanted to feel. This search for the perfect articulation led to imperfect writing. My feelings were always the same (even though I failed to realize that I was capturing them incorrectly), but when I returned to my writing at a later date (which is the point of keeping a journal), my chronicled thoughts didn’t strike me as actual reflections of those moments in time. How come I was so insistent on capturing what I wanted to feel that I failed to preserve how I felt at that moment? Isn’t that the point? I think it was because I was trying to please this phantom persona.
Let’s speed up to today. I’m still alone, I’m still not happy about it, and I’m still trying to focus on how I want to feel rather than how I feel right now. Now, I accept there is always a third persona tied to the “who” for which we write, but I’m no longer caught up in trying to please this character. So why hasn’t my writing improved? As I reflect on that, I realize that it’s because of what I’m afraid to admit: that I’ve created my misery.
I don’t think it’s unreasonable to wish for love, and I don’t think it’s out of line to seek out that which will make me happy with life. But I do think it’s important that I understand what is in my way and to reasonably assess what I can do about it.
This entire preamble is to set up the next big question for me to ponder. I’m going to take some time to think about it, but I think it’s important enough to pose for anyone else to consider as well (including that elusive third persona, although that defeats the whole figment of who the third persona is).
What will I give up in order to love someone? What will you?
