I am at war with myself.
Constantly trying to resolve the fractured portions of my personality into a coherent whole.
Caught eternally between the person I am, the person I was, and the person I could be.
Why do I feel the need to fit neatly into one of society’s boxes? To find the perfect label, so others can judge the whole of me, instead of whatever part they can see?
There are a multitude of mes inside my head; who is to say which one is real?
Is it the me that revels in nature?
Is it the me that buries herself in books?
Is it the poet? Is that who I am?
Or am I the girl who loves music, and sings constantly?
Am I the me who wants to travel the world, or the me who would gladly spend days without leaving the house?
Am I someone who frequents coffee shops and loves deep conversations and bands you’ve never heard of?
Am I a low-key conspiracy theorist?
Am I the theater nerd?
The gifted student?
Is the real me the one who gets overexcited about movies and tv shows, or the one who feels like she was born a century or two late?
The girl who hates crowds, or loves rollercoasters?
The one who believes in magic, or the one who thinks the world is broken beyond repair?
The answer is yes.
I am all of these people, plus a few others.
No one is capable of defining themselves as a whole.
So why do we try?