The Whose Eyes Are Those Eyes Devil

The following is a mix between a personal diary entry and some kind of poetry. While I don't want to make a habit of posting this sort of thing, for risk of talking about personal stuff too readily in a public space, I also want to escape the trap of microblogging — so here it goes for now.

Do you ever feel like you're being watched? Even right now, doesn't it feel like someone's watching you from slightly above the back of your head?

I get the not unoccasional thoughts about being observed through unknown magical means by friends and by family, by loved ones and by abusers, by the past and the present. I know no one has such ability. I don't believe I'm actually being watched. In fact, these periods of this mindset are always started with a question about it.

What would they think right now? If they could see me? Would they be happy? Sad? Sympathetic? Remorseful?

It's always a question of what if. What if they could see me, what if they could understand. What if they were in my body, seeing and feeling what I do? What if they were riding along, separate to my qualia and yet taking all that in still?

These thoughts do not come from a place of paranoia and fear. At least, I don't think they do. These are thoughts of inadequacy. These are thoughts of being judged about if I'm good enough — creating enough, getting by enough, existing enough. Not out of some metric of ethics.

Of course, every one of these imagined observers are such different categories. My friends would be sympathetic. My abusers would probably not care. My past would probably just be baffled by this existing us.

It's such a recurring idea even still. To be observed. I want to be seen and understood.

I've never been a religious creature. Not really. I'm spiritual, sure, but I don't believe in higher power and I am sceptical a higher power in a rational sense exists. So it's not like a god is watching me or anything similar. If some sort of advanced alien force exists that's watching our world, that information is meaningless to us if we can't do anything with it.

Sometimes I've imagined that we're all our fursonas playing some simulation or remote control technology — that at some point I'll wake up from this life and I'll be me, that this life will be as simple as coming away from a video game I've completed. In these circumstances, the observer is Aether, playing this human. That would be such a strange experience, to realise all this life was a minor thing compared to a bigger life outside it.

Regardless, this is that thought again. Something above, something behind. An observer.

Am I enough? Will they understand?