Everybody is always telling me who I am supposed to be. They tell me I am not nice enough and that I am a doormat. They tell me that I am too unfocused and that I am a control freak. These things they tell me I am seem to contradict themselves, but they do not. I seem to contradict myself, but I do not. Yet, I am not the things they tell me I am. I am the things that I choose to be. Today I am a writer and a baker, who happens to go to work. Tomorrow I may be a worker who writes in her spare time. The day after that I may be a musician and an older sister who makes spirit stones for my brother when he is sick.
What we see and know is only an interpretation of what someone else sees and knows. No one will ever know me better than myself, but everybody knows me better than I do. My self-portraits may look nothing like myself, but they are more like I am than any photograph I have ever seen. When I write it may not sound the same as when I talk, but it is the same as how I think.
And so I live this life of seeming contradictions completely unsure of what I am, but knowing what I am not for I am made up of my past and nothing more than that and the past I have made for myself.