I am not a person,
I am a collection of experiences that I can’t even remember.
Somewhere in the void sits a collection of memories,
They make up who I am,
The fleeting moments of personality brought forth by flashes of remembrance.
I know myself the same as I would a friend that I have not seen in several years,
Face vaguely familiar,
Emotions evoked,
Yet no recollection.
I need someone to tell me who I am,
And yet it will always be wrong,
They see only surface level,
An incomplete picture of me,
It will always be wrong in the same way that I am.
I over label myself,
I explain every aspect of my identity no matter how small,
It’s my way of clinging on to things that I have discovered.
A piece of myself that I finally have back.