My Clone Stole My Identity

In the solitude of the night, I found myself while diving into a state of intense euphoria induced by chemical substances.

We always meet at the most innocuous moments of our existence, and it was in that instant—while I was enjoying the abundance of neurotransmitters in my brain—that I saw myself standing on the balcony while, at the same time, sitting on the couch inside.

It wasn’t the first time this had happened, yet I still struggled to deal with the situation. A peculiar and unpleasant atmosphere always settled between the identical images staring at each other.

It was like the Cold War: each waiting for the other’s nonexistent attack. Both on the defensive, trapped inside themselves, unwilling to escape into the exterior. Passive and apprehensive.

During the brief time the clones observed each other, I tried to search for my identity and noticed how strange it was to do so while facing myself—while I was, I also could not be. I was both myself and the other. So who was I, after all?

I was experiencing quantum superposition, a paradox—the existence of a being in all its possible states at once.

What frustrated me was realizing that the only moment I could literally see myself in front of me was also the moment when I couldn’t clearly define myself. It seemed that the mere sight of oneself had the power to dissolve one’s identity.

My other self and I exchanged no words or gestures, only micro-expressions of despair, fear, unease, and anger.

“Do I hate myself?” — The question echoed in my thoughts, already weakened by the tension of the moment.

Then, the living room light turned on. I turned around, and when I looked back at the balcony, I had already disappeared.

I had the feeling that we would meet again, and that possibility unsettled me. I kept wondering whether the atmosphere and reactions would always be the same or if one of us would eventually launch the atomic bomb lurking behind the micro-expressions on our faces. Or perhaps, who knows—next time my other self visits, I could change the situation without resorting to nuclear war. Maybe I just needed to change the way I see myself, to be kinder to my clone.

I realized I had spent all this time creating a nonexistent conflict within myself. I believe I have fallen hopelessly in love with conflict. I need to remember, next time, to resist the allure of chaos.

I turned off the living room light, lay down on the couch, but did not sleep—perhaps due to the impact of seeing myself in a place I did not occupy, or maybe because of the substance I had taken earlier. I will never know.

Bored, I began to observe, even in the darkness, the nuances of the white paint on the ceiling.

“Even this painted ceiling has a more established identity than I do” was the last thing I thought. “What a shame.”

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