The little man who lives in my head is as mortal as me. He stares out through my eyes which are the only eyes he can use to see. His ears listen only to what I can hear. His sense of smell and taste and touch are my own. So why then do I even describe this man as though he is someone other than myself? It’s because I don’t want to mistake my inner self for that things some people call as soul. That wishful immortal contrived to escape our death. Like an escape pod or a lifeboat by which we will survive the end of life. There’s no good reason to think such a thing exists. Though the temptation to believe seems a near universal attraction. An attraction even to me. As I love life. Yet I do not wish to fool myself into thinking I’ll live forever.
Notes from my muse
The Homunculus is like a captain chained to the wheel of his ship. There are no life boats. No preservers. And no signal flares. The fate of the ship is his own.