1.

In my estimation, there are two types of people: those that know themselves, and those that don’t.

People that know themselves can predict likes and dislikes. They are often decisive to the point of brashness, and make few apologies. Those that know themselves can speak in convincing hypothetical rhetoric as if evincing hardcore fact. Those that know themselves tend to be judgmental and sanctimonious, have many acquaintances but few friends, and are often looked to for advice, and as authority. They are usually critical and insensitive. People that know themselves are abhorrent of change and persevere to preserve the world around them in an amber of permanence. They do not take kindly to strangers, avoid eye contact on the street, and are rude to public servants. They have an inflated sense of entitlement and revel in ignorance while simultaneously condemning it. People that know themselves are self-described and socially designated ‘good people’. They work hard and make families and contribute to the world. Most take far more than they ever give. They know everything about themselves, therefore by extension everyone else, and everything. They vilify the past of which they benefit to create a future they may control.

Those that don’t know themselves are impulsive and unreliable. They are usually lazy and procrastinate with precocity. They sleep excessively and daydream furiously, and tend to be moody. They are medicated to an obscene degree; few protest. They are over-mothered and over-sheltered, victims of their environment that know not responsibility, nor consequence. Their tastes fluctuate rapidly, and they obsess intermittently. They are prone to fetishistic and aberrant sexuality, while others diligently practice celibacy. Some are devoutly religious, but hop from system to system, accruing an impressive cache of knowledge but curiously no spiritual cadre. They are fickle and creative and wear many occupational hats. They frequently fail to develop a single special skill, but marginally command myriad talents. They use their amorphous nature unwittingly, fashion identities to define eras of life. They exhibit a startling capacity for devotion, but a contrasting knack for abandonment. They are hypocritical and defensive, sensitive and inward, and oft crippled by anxiety. Most conceal these weaknesses in shyness or coyness. Those that don’t know themselves are petrified of the abyss, but enamoured of the fictional unknown. They fantasize prodigiously, but fail in reality to manifest much accomplishment.

Those that do know themselves excel at business. They make good lawyers and judges, and fantastic politicians. Any authority figure, really, possesses an inherent self-knowledge. It functions as a beacon, a compass, pointing them where to go and not to go, what and who to avoid or embrace. They make for successful bankers, moguls, executives; they are trusted leaders like principals and pastors, media personalities, talk show hosts. They make fine editors, critics, and commentators.

Those dispossessed of the crucial faculty of self-knowledge are more adept at manual and repetitious labor and are frequently caught in dead-end jobs. By comparison they also excel at the arts. They are writers and philosophers, and many seek the shelter of academia to compensate for lost familial security. In any ostentatious career these people find success, as their self-flagellation suits such endeavor. They make good assistants and gophers, messengers, and delivery folk. They are brilliant in technical arenas, and are good in collaborative situations. They have an aptitude for casework.

It is not easy to make the distinction between someone that knows themselves and someone that doesn’t. Some that profess self-knowledge are in fact operating in a terrifying denial, while others whom have assumed the affectations of the creative class are secretly slaves to banality. Truly, the demarcation is behavior, and not speech. Prolonged observation is required to accurately determine one’s true type, and even still this is a tricky prospect. Armed with a list of criteria far more exhaustive than that aforementioned the task remains daunting. Ultimately it is up to the individual to objectively and thoroughly assess his or herself, and then self-identify accordingly. Although self-identification may seem antithetical to not knowing oneself, this is merely a flaw of nomenclature.

I considered this as the cab wove around the gentle sloping curves of my childhood neighborhood, and I noted how little the landscape had seemed to alter. It had only grown smaller as I’d grown bigger, and huge sprawling lawns had been reduced to tiny green swatches. All the houses were the same, but lacked a vitality and brightness, their colors muted by age. Although present, no changes stood out. As I directed the driver through the roughly paved streets I felt a dread welling in my chest. Home was close by, and they say you can never go there again, which was exactly what I was doing. My grandmother had passed, alone in her big empty house save my aunt, and the immediate family had been summoned to discuss affairs. I had lost touch with most of them following the death of my mother. I was her only child and her representative for the estate; that word itself – ‘estate’ – being a deliberate overstatement.

I saw the roof break the horizon, sagging like my posture and expectations. I was always something of a disappointment to them, the deserter, the runaway, now the prodigal son. While I had a mostly fine upbringing and a happy childhood, I watched my parents, aunts, uncles, cousins all stifled by this stagnant and limiting country, and knew early on I must seek the bigger, brighter and better. I was fated. I was more. I would prove myself right.

The cab pulled into the gravel-hewn driveway, crunching like breakfast cereal. It stopped by the front stairs, and I gazed up at that intimidating gothic beast squatting in its final repose, windows black and baleful like witches' eyes. I guiltily hoped we’d all consent to its demolition, sell the land and remand my aunt to a care facility. Some fond memories nagged at the base of my mind, but I suppressed them with a pathological brunt. I was young. I was sophisticated. I knew better.

I paid the driver more than I should have and stepped out. I drew a deep, fresh breath, and I coughed, the suitcase lagging at my knee the last reassurance of the new life from which I had returned. I took the first step, hesitated, and breathed deep again. I exhaled long and slow, and relaxed ceremoniously.

“Let’s get on with it.”

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