Wrapped around an idea a man has of himself — this self-image that follows from the call of his name — he acts his whole life by a peculiar tune that hardly changes throughout the span of years. There is so much claptrap that surrounds the exaggerated intent to act with impressive force amongst his peers, and so appear noteworthy in their memories, that even within his own mind he is made to believe in his personal propaganda. A man is all the time editing his sense of identity within his own mind as well as incessantly attempting to edit or predefine the impression he has on others. Yet behind all of this is the simple instinctive drive to prosper within the herd. No longer a question of brute force and alpha male stomping of the chest, the game in modern society, regardless of our outward preaching and show of high ideals, is more about individual branding than it is of personal character and inherent virtue. Men exhaust themselves maintaining phantoms of false personalities they carry around as weapons against the reality of others realizing that they too are mediocre and imperfect. It is an incessant game of musical chairs, with every human ape secretly hiding the inner fear that they may just miss out if they don’t act according to the vain rules of societal survival. The trick the very few learn, before they otherwise lose themselves altogether in the smokes of mirrors of psychological masks, is to detach themselves inside and so save some space for sincerity to fill.