Recent re-evaluations have revealed that I, in fact, am a professional puppeteer; an old, lonely, self-loathing puppeteer. While I spend time lurking somewhere above the stage, my shiny marionette dances gaily around the floor, shouting, "Look at all the ignorance!" and acting as the only peice of me that the audience may ever know.
And how I love my marionette. When I indulge myslef with my pseudo-existence through him, I don't think of me as myslf, but rather something more beautiful; something worthy of justifiably making radical statments about the audience and receiving applause afterward. If the puppeteer tried this, he'd be pelted with tomatoes.
It's one of those things that just seems more easily explained metaphorically. The me that you see and hear tends to cry, "Hipocrites!" at the drop of a hat, while the me I have to be stuck with just keeps pushing aside the option of stepping onto the stage himself.
Does the story have a moral?