Infinite Cortex
You flounced in late in your deliberately mismatched clothes. Neither was accidental it transpired. A necessary part of the performance in which we were all assigned our parts. First up was our birthdays, our month of our arrival a seemingly anodyne cue to agonise over the providence of the stars. Did we believe in astrology? No, take a seat to the left. If we did, we of course would huddle in collective paranoia to the right. Was everyone else taking this stuff seriously was all I could think as I stated calmly that I was Saggitarian, loved camping, team sports and even my birthstone. You became Pavlov's dog at this point nodding until I nearly laughed. After some work on ourselves and some thorough scrutiny and judgement over lunch we reconvened. This was the important bit you said. The breakthrough session that would help us understand if we had been nurtured as children or if we were introverts by nature, and therefore, you know, kinda hard work for pretty much everyone in the group that went left this morning. Over lunch I'd casually asked what it meant that I used my left hand for my knife and right for fork despite being right handed. You smiled so sweetly at me, embracing your theories when I followed up with my confession that I could ONLY carry shoulder bags on my left shoulder. Should I be concerned about this? Call my mother, my gynaecologist, my lawyer? I watched you appraise my efficiently coordinated outfit, the splash of idiosyncrasy chosen and executed perfectly by my stripy tights. I'm an individual who is reliable, creative enough to think for myself but not be trouble. I am safe but can lick at danger. I am left, I am right, I am both. You talked loudly then of sabotage, self and public. The divided self.
