I wander through life wondering who is watching.
When the house is empty, I act differently, for no obvious reason. I sing more, sweep the floor, bake cookies, lie on the couch and read. I spend several hours embroidering a chessboard for three players. I don't login to AIM. Solitude is simpler than being an individual among other individuals, even when those individuals are my own family.
In "What Dreams May Come," the protagonist's widow can't tell when her husband's spirit is with her. She responds to his gestures, but doesn't see him, understand him, recognize him. Who haunts me? Do I look through God the way she looks through him?
Always, I act in response to the people around me. I don't realize it, but when they are gone, I realize: I am a different person. It's hard to isolate my identity. It's hard to see who is really there--inside and outside.