I have lived with an observer all my life. An inner friend and intersubjective psychic relation. Early on I learned to listen to him. Secretly. Because he was not someone others wanted to associate with. In privacy, he taught me what I needed to know both about him and the older one he imparted his knowledge from. His energy and authenticity slowly became my own. He observed things I could not see in myself. Or with the fictional character I have created for myself in the urban psychic layer we physically live in together with others. Slowly, his directness and attention became increasingly palpable and compelling. And my fictional character more bogus and unsound. I was finally forced by sheer self-preservation to abandon it. Holding on to it was tearing me apart. So I broke down completely, gave up and abandoned it and turned to my inner observer to try to become more like him. I kept trying to find a way for him to be in the urban layer that would suit him. Which would have allow him to co-exist with me there along with others’ in my life and interact with the world around me. Along with his counterpart that I later found as the essence that is my psychic reflection. It is what I looked for in my relationships with others in my psychic life. But what he is, very few want to know anything about, or confirm. They prefer to live sideways. In contradictions and agony. And never face our inner observer directly. Or the reflection that is within us in the embrace of his counterpart. The one we like to see in our opposite sex. The psychic life we spend time in as a constant stream of spontaneous incursions, inviolable facts and perceptions that emerge from an inner indeterminable psychic scope of character. They are the youngest in my interior family and the ones who are always closest to me, they are the ones I spend time with in my immediate presence. Almost always as an outward reflection of them in other people.