I'm walking with my friends on a path in the woods. We've been at school all morning, and it's lunchtime. 

Suddenly I'm aware of his presence. 

'His' is figurative, 'he' is not real. I have created him, just as I have created his presence. I know this. Yet still I act as though each sound I hear and each image I see is broadcast to him: the Man of Judgement. I act as though he's watching me, scrutinising me, defining me. 

I try to impress him, try to prove myself worthy. Worthy of what? I don't know. I bring up to my friends the English essay I got back that was given full marks, and delight in them responding with comments about my skill in the subject. But this is not because that pleases me in itself. It is because I delight in him hearing it. 

At moments like these, all my experiences are just building blocks for his image of me: the image I believe I can design with my choices.