Why does this person look just like me? From what I can see, they carry themselves the same as me, they have the same mannerisms as me and they have the same body language as me. The way they present themselves is the same as me. The scary thing is, they’re wearing an outfit very similar to one I actually own. This is weird. It’s as though I’m looking at myself. Dumbfounded, I find myself walking down this dark looking alley and towards this person, and on closer inspection, I notice something odd.
Their face looks a lot like mine, but something is different. This other person’s face shows a lot less emotion than mine, as though it’s been toughened by a hard experience. Their eyes seem empty and hollow, as though there is no soul inside this living body. It just seems as though it’s another version of me but we’ve lived two very different lives. The atmosphere given off by them is cold. I don’t know whether their aura is genuinely icy or it’s just the raw feeling of confusion flowing through my blood. Why do I feel as though I’m stood next to another version of myself? As all of these thoughts run through my mind I realise that at this point I am just stood in front of this figure, my mouth wide open in shock, and my eyes gazing right into theirs.
I quickly come back to my senses and the chilling uncertainty turns into a scorching fear. I feel the temperature rise as I see emotion emerging on their face. What are they going to say? Before I can even say or do something to make myself seem normal the person reaches into their coat pocket. At this point I don’t even know how I’m feeling. My blood feels like lava as I feel it pumping from my heart and around my body but on the outside I feel so cold that I’m actually immobilised. Time feels to be going extremely slow and my vision is blurry. The only thing that’s in focus is this strange character.
In what seems to be a very voyeuristic journey, this person’s hand rests in their coat pocket for what seems an eternity. The corners of their mouth slowly turn upwards and formulates their mouth into a grin. A very sly one. If the grin could speak to me it would be telling me that they’re aware of the hold they have on me. Their eyes begin so squint ever so slightly but my gaze isn’t fixed upon their face, it’s on their right hand in anticipation of what they’re about to brandish. It becomes visible. In an anticlimactic fashion, it’s just a piece of paper in their hand. It’s clear they want me to have it. Robotically I hold my hand out and take it and with my hands shaking with the magnitude of a severe earthquake I open the piece of paper.
“Rome wasn’t built in a day but they were laying bricks every hour” reads the crooked handwriting on the paper. In utter astonishment at what I’ve just read I look back and find that the mysterious character has disappeared. But they couldn’t have possibly walked off this street in the short amount of time that I took my gaze off them. This isn’t the worst of my worries though. Is it a coincidence that a person who strangely resembles me handed me a piece of paper with the first thing I tweeted all them years ago?