Between a phone call and a hamburger

I've just come back from the mirror with some bad news: I'm not Witold Gombrowicz, the writer. 

And not being Gombrowicz, I'm not who I thought I was. 

It's ok being who I am, though who I am isn't who I thought I was. It's certainly an adjustment, I suppose I'll get used to it.

Gombrowicz is remarkable, I'll always be indebted to his ideas about the importance of immaturity and the unimportance of art.

I'm pretty sure reality was ever sufficiently explained to me, that from now on I'll have to explain it for myself.

It's not something I can do 'between a phone call and a hamburger," as Gombrowicz so cunningly writes somewhere. It won't happen quickly either, this ability to see myself as I am and not as others see me. And then to have something real to say about it.