Who am I?

They ask me who I am. I fumble. I am unsure.

I am a drifter. I have never truly loved anyone. I have never felt passionate about anything. And I have never felt like staying.

Who am I?

“I am a writer” I reply. “Are you a professional one, a good one?” I fumble. I am unsure. “No. I am just a writer. Adjective-less and pretty aimless. Just a writer, nothing more.”

They ask me why I don’t write about love that has been found and realized. They ask me why all I write has a sense of loss, a sense of betrayal in it. I tell them, I could never be a writer of fantasy, and they quickly label me a cynic. But, I am no cynic. I wouldn’t know cynicism if it was standing in front of me. I would just see cynicism as a disgruntled person and maybe hope that it is a temporary affliction. They ask me again. Tell us something about yourself. The world is dark outside, the winds blowing at an illegal speed and I feel constricted and restrained.

Who am I?

I am narcissist. I sit here typing my viewpoints under the pretence that someone would read what I write. I am a pretender. I pretend I live the day dreams and stories I spin. I am a suspicious hopeful. Every emotion I have ever felt has a tinge of mistrust and Murphy’s omnipresence in it, yet I long to ‘live’ each emotion I feel and label it and write about it.

They aren’t satisfied. They call me vague and unclear. And when I agree with them, they call me defensive. When I call myself agreeable, they call me a prude. When I agree that I am a prude, they judge me as someone who doesn’t know what she is talking about. I look at myself. I am not bound by any ties. I can just get up and leave. But they would call me an escapist.

Who am I?

I am a caged spirit, who has tried too many times to break away. I have been unsuccessful. I am bound by my make, by my own decisions and dispositions. I am caged by the hint of the ‘damn’ that I give about what others think. I’m caged by other’s perceptions.

They ask me one last time, voices loud, cold hands biting the flesh on my shoulders, cold words cutting my insides, cruel tones belittling me. “Who the fuck are you?” The wind is ferocious outside. My silence is deafening. The room is too small. The question too big. I feel like crying. I feel weak. I feel lost and out of control.

Who am I?


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