In the morning, I sit. I wake up, climb out of bed, and I sit. My posture is slouched, my mind blank; I simply sit. Ideas are not zooming from one side of my brain to the other, but I still feel as if I am contemplating something amazing. It is this moment that I want to be my subconscious. I want to be the person inside of me that I’ll never know. For as long as I am me, I will never know my subconscious. That’s a strange concept for me to try to wrap my head around. It’s strange not because of the complexity of neuroscience, but because I can never know who I am when I’m not paying attention. For all I know, I could be a marvelously mean man who is bitter at everyone and everything, and the person the world sees is simply his facade to get through it all. Perhaps, my subconscious feels transgendered, but it too shocked and appalled by the outside world to let me know how he feels. Maybe I’m exactly the same, but the possibility of me not being the same is something that baffles me entirely. So in the morning, I sit. Why? I don’t know. Maybe I’m waiting. Maybe I’m hoping that one day I’ll discover who I am when I’m asleep.