Identity

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Show me a beautiful thing, and I’ll show you the deepest yearning within me, to be able to replicate it. To make it my own.

Photo by Anthony Tran on Unsplash


Identity is hard for me. Questions like Who am I? What do I want? have me blanking.

Emotions are hard too. I have too many of them, all the time.

And every few years I end up trying to pull a revamp – an overhaul that essentially comes back to the same place.

Blank pages are slightly friendlier because they don’t expect me to define myself. Not just yet. But eventually I have to start writing, and then I’m right back where I started.

It’s easier to write when I’m in pain, but it doesn’t change what I end up writing. It’s always some weird form of pain. Always some weird form of failure.

And I have to be careful about how much pain I let bleed into the internet. 

Who am I?

Poet? Storyteller? Person who wants to socialize? Person who wants to be known? Someone who prefers to remain in the shadows? Leftist? Filled with an insatiable greed for money? Feminist? Desperate to find some white knight archetype so I can curl into their personality and be free of the need to find my own?

Yes.

Well, that’s not helpful.

I know.

I am someone who likes beautiful things. I like to look at them, feel them, hold them, taste them. I want to create them.

Show me a beautiful thing, and I’ll show you the deepest yearning within me, to be able to replicate it. To make it my own.

Show me a beautiful person, and I’ll show you my desire to become like them. To become them.

I don’t know who I am.

I don’t even know if that’s true.

It’s fucking terrifying.

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