In my imagination, I'm very suave. Well-dressed, 'put together' as my grandmother would say. My hair is free from split ends, I'm svelte, and have well-defined, attractive upper arms. My conversation skills are impeccable. The names and work of contemporary poets are always on the tip of my tongue, but I'm equally well-versed in the classics. My sense of history is specific - names and dates easily lend support to my general understanding. When I write, it is always with insight. People read it and feel compelled to comment, to say, I've been there, it felt like this, or wow, that was lovely to read.

My imagined version of me is much easier to ascertain than the real one. I never know whether I see clearly when I look in the mirror. During meditation, I return again and again to the me sitting on the cushion, breathing, experiencing physical sensations. Sometimes sitting, I feel trapped. Like a metal cage has sprung up inside my skin, my veins filled with wires. Then I remember, I've chosen to sit here for this period of time. Whatever itchy sensation on my nose or back, whatever tightness in my throat or abdomen, whatever heat and burning in my eyes, so what? Just sensations. Innocuous until I react to them like a caged beast thrashing and foaming at the mouth to escape my own body.