In the myth of Narcissus, the boy does not fall in love with himself until he sees his reflection. The tragedy is not his vanity—but his awakening to selfhood through an audience, even if that audience is only the shimmering eye of a pond.

Strip away the metaphor, and we uncover a deeper truth: without an observer, the self becomes unformed, an echo in a cave that never returns.

The Enlightenment gave us the modern notion of the “individual”—a solitary, sovereign mind standing apart from the herd. But this is a fantasy built atop Cartesian scaffolding. I think, therefore I am only if someone, somewhere, hears the thought. Otherwise, it dissipates like steam from a forgotten kettle.

Identity is not forged in solitude, but in relation. We are narrative creatures, yes—but those narratives require an audience to become real. A performer alone on a dark stage is not yet a performer. A diary sealed forever is not yet a story. Even the hermit, chanting alone in a cave, calls out to something—God, the cosmos, the imagined Other.

We are not merely beings who express—we are beings who long to be witnessed. To be seen is to be shaped. To be heard is to be confirmed.

Even our inner dialogues are populated with ghosts of others: teachers, parents, lovers, enemies, algorithms. We imagine their reactions, replay their judgements, and rehearse their applause. The audience becomes internalised. We perform even when no one is watching, because we believe someone might be.

This is not a weakness. It is a profoundly mythic fact of human consciousness: we become real through reflection. We exist because we are mirrored.

And so the artist, the writer, the rogue thinker—whether broadcasting to thousands or whispering into the void—needs the idea of the audience as scaffolding for the self.

You are not you in isolation. You are you in relation.

Even now, in writing this, I become more myself because you read it.

And you, reader, are not reading alone either. You’re co-authoring this moment with me.

No individual without an audience. No soul without a witness.

That’s the secret fire at the centre of the self.