I'm the biggest paradox I've ever known. Insecure about almost all the things I do, but still a total narcissist. I try to tell other people, who I am in a million different ways. Some are subtle, whereas some are not.
But no matter what, they have got you all pegged. Those cardboard boxes, with bright little labels!
But there's a part of me, that has never found a home, rattling around in categories that never really did justice.
I look around at other people, trying to judge how loosely they fit into theirs, sensing a turmoil, a knot of confusion hidden beneath the name tag.
And I realize that we're still only strangers who assume we already know what the other is going to say.
Shouldn't we be writing our identities by hand? And speak only for ourselves, in our own words. So that we can meet each other as we are. And most importantly ask :
"What is it like being you? " , and be brave enough to admit that we don't already know the answer.
I thought I was following the arc of the story, but I find myself in passages, I don't understand.
Either everything feels important or nothing does.
It's just a mess of moments that don't even seem to belong to the same genre.
What kind of story is this?
I keep thinking that I'm on the cusp of some heartbreaking twist and this is the best of what it's ever gonna be.
The only thing I know is that, there's more to this story. Maybe I should re-read all those pages I had skipped earlier to get to the good parts. And maybe I'll realize that it was all about choosing my own adventure.
©Roshni Ravindran
@of.both.worlds
