Balcony Guy is a projection my friend (who shall remain unnamed) has. He has unkempt hair that grazes his shoulders, which he usually ties up in a ponytail. But in the snapshot of him in her mind, his hair is down, bedraggled. It is dawn and he is out on the balcony, taking long, contemplative drags on his cigarette. He is leaning against the low wall, his lanky arms outstretched. Taking a last drag, he stubs it out in the ashtray (which used to hold hairwax), strides over to the bedside, kisses her eyelid, and says, "morning."
Friends, friends, you wouldn't believe how many projections have been plaguing me. They have been living in my head, walking, talking, like real people with autonomy (do we?) and doing as they pleased. I'm only afraid if we continue to live in our projections, life is going to waltz right by before we know it. Or have I surrendered long ago?
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He stopped in mid-sentence, knowing there isn't a point in following up with it. Something banal that didn't mean much when he thought it, and had meant even less when he voiced it. What he is now thinking is whether the time has come for a confrontation. He is tired. There hadn't been time to grab a cup of coffee to go because they had overslept and the train was scheduled for 07:40. He turned on his side to look at her face-on. Her eyes had that glassy countenance which reflected all but revealed nothing.
He only saw his own reflection in them. "I'm sick of talking to myself. We can't even have a proper conversation anymore," he said, halfheartedly. "You just disappear into yourself. It's like you're not even here anymore."