There he was, beamed into your living space, crowding your mind, pontificating about some arcane topic – a subliminal affirmation of his superiority. Mr. Big had started to make a habit of being everywhere, all at once. He’d gotten bored with just being rich. He needed to control narratives, be in every conversation – loved or hated, but certainly not ignored. What is the purpose of having more money than everyone else if you don’t also have the fame to match? The two always felt congruent to him, like it was the natural order of things, a wrong that needed to be corrected in his life.
Sometimes, when he allowed himself a moment of reflection, he’d have a flashback to a dream he’s worked his entire life to suppress. In the vision he’s eight years old, sitting in his bedroom closet, hiding from his mother. It’s not clear why, but in the moment he feels unseen, unloved, so he’s hiding with the hope that someone, anyone, preferably his mother, will come looking for him. It’s an inaudible cry for attention he feels is deserved. He hates the thought because it makes him feel weak. Like he can only be actualized by the acceptance of others. It’s a rabbit hole into his psyche that drives his self-loathing. But though he recognizes his own flaw, he does nothing to change it.
So he awakes every morning, studies his face in the mirror, works up his self-confidence then takes a few steps back. He poses like a combination super-hero and boxer, ready to take the ring, embark on a hero’s journey. He holds the pose until his mindset matches his body, then he’s off. Fortune is nothing without the recognition of genius it inevitably confers. He needs it and wants it.
GLAZ 