It’s like—okay, imagine you’re a deer.
You’re a healthy and happy little fawn, until a day
comes when suddenly there’s a little something on top of your
head. You’re growing antlers. Other deer grow antlers, you know
this, but you’re a little surprised that it’s happening to you. And
happening to you it is, a process driven by some mysterious
not-you force acting on you. You never wanted antlers. You
want nothing to do with antlers. Every year, you shed them, but the relief is short-lived as they almost immediately begin growing back, bigger and bigger with each repetition. Bigger and bigger and bigger. It is impossible for anyone to see you and think you don’t have antlers. Seen from a distance, your most distinguishable feature is your antlers. Something has betrayed you, but you don’t know what—only that you’re powerless against it. All the other deer treat you as someone with antlers, and something about this is deeply painful to you, but you don’t understand why because you look at your
reflection and you have antlers.
