Do you know who you are?
Like really know.
And do you show that real self to others?
So much so that everyone would feel like they knew you forever.
Realer than the chairs, the tables, the roads.
More real than anything else real.
I have been asking myself lately if I know who I am.
And not the kind of question that leads to the purpose of my life. None of that.
Just the basic aspect of the question.
Who am I.
Beyond the kind of food I like to eat.
Beyond what my family and friends think of me.
Beyond the filters of prejudice from preconceived notions, stereotypes.
If I was to sit down right here and write all the things that I am, will you do the same?
Will you just sit down and write yourself on paper?
I mean the real truth of you.
And then would you take that paper and make it real, as real as the table it is resting on.
As real as the DNA of you?
When you write yourself down, look for the details of you.
I will do the same. So here goes nothing.
I am a good person.
I love to hear people’s stories.
What troubles them. What wins them over.
What impossible things they have done.
The unthinkable things they had to endure too.
I don’t want to die even if it means that I will be reborn.
I want to travel all around Earth.
Stand on the Moon.
See the Milky Way up close.
I love to paint. So much it hurts not to.
I love my children as if I had already loved them before this life.
I grieve the people I love even when they are alive.
I just grieve the day I may lose them.
I started writing because of the strange grief thoughts in my head.
I wrote so I would not lose my mind.
I think I am funny. I love karaoke. Even though I am a terrible singer.
I never lie. I don’t like people who do.
I am quirky. For better or worse.
I wish I had realized it sooner, everything would have made a lot more sense.
I don’t like to shop.
I wish I only needed two pairs of jeans and a couple of t-shirts.
I love short hair.
I am a small person inside my head.
I don’t think about my age much.
I will write and paint my way to the last day of my life.
I have not enjoyed the public aspects of my work.
That surprised the heck out of me.
The longer I am on this journey the more I enjoy giving it all away. All of it.
Inside my head, I live outside of time.
As if I am not here. Even though I know I am.
I feel free. Maybe for the first time.
To live the life of my choosing.
And that is the hardest thing I will ever have to do.
Aside from saying goodbye to the people I have loved.
Now it’s your turn.
Write yourself down.
Remember who you are.
With me, myself, and I