In a fit of introspection, I decide to wonder who I am. It’s a fair question, and one that, after all, has been asked countless times throughout the decades, by poets, singers, painters, doctors, politicians, teachers, and the everyday man.
I’m not sure of the answers, really.
I am oxymoronic. I’m wildly overconfident, and deeply insecure. I’m surrounded by people, and I am alone. I love everyone, and I hate you all. I’m intelligent, and I am an idiot. I am unique, and a copy.
I love the feeling of rain on my skin, and the sound of silence. I love the smell of an old book, and the taste of melting chocolate. I sip coffee slowly, scalding my tongue every once in a while. I add too much pepper to soup, and too much salt to food.
I have a bad habit of making weird faces. I talk too much, but I say too little. I don’t let people in, but nobody seems to notice.
I write, I observe. I sing loudly and off-key along to Broadway, and the Beatles, and Katy Perry, and Lady Gaga. JK Rowling is my hero, my inspiration, my idol.
I dream of becoming somebody, as opposed to remaining a nobody. I dream of a far off time and place where the world is beautiful, and life is wonderful. I dream of being remembered.
I take myself too seriously, except when I don’t. I don’t like people, except when I do.
I hope and I dream and I write and I read and I talk and I listen and I imagine and I explore and I think and I think and I think and I think.
I am a reader, a writer, a lover, a fighter. I am a student, a friend, an enemy, a stranger.
I am the sound of raindrops on a roof. I am a cloud, floating high in the sky. I am a mountain, immovable and strong. I am a dandelion, going where the world takes me.
I am indefinable, indescribable.
I am me.
