How can I tell the truth about myself? Who am I anyway? Everything is staged. Everything is just a silly disguise. The reality is always well-hidden, maybe the disguise itself being the most truthful way to find out who I really am. It doesn’t matter if I’m dressed like a cardinal, a gardener, a janitor, or a university professor. Everything is staged. The eye is real: Yes, this is my iris. That’s me there, for sure. At least part of me, hiding in plain sight. Nothing really makes much sense, and I suppose that’s the only way to get closer to the truth. We just try to bring some sense into this senseless existence. So, if I choose to see myself as a self-absorbed, all-knowing cardinal, or whatever, so be it.