Am I what you make of me? I am often defined using labels. My relationships, my vocation, my hobbies, my language, caste, creed, colour, race. Some of these were given to me the moment I came into the world. Some were later bestowed upon me. Some were given without consent. Others merely pasted for convenience to make it easier to categorize me. Strip me of all of these, does nothing remain behind? Who decides what defines me? My experiences shape my perception, my actions give me my character. I am defined by my choices. I am defined by my potential. I am defined by my energy and strength. I am boundless in everything, yet I define my own boundaries. I am but a drop in the ocean but I am the ocean itself, for without the drop the ocean is nothing. I redefine my being all the time. It is this quality that makes me the person I am and always aspire to be.
I just get bored
I get bored easily. I just always want things to keep changing, always craving excitement, getting tired of repeated things. Even people. I even find myself occasionally wondering how the hell I'm going to date someone for a year, not to talk of being married for longer than that. I mean, people get boring, things get boring. Or maybe it's just the kinds of people and things I've related with.
Still, I get bored. I can't say I move on easily. There are still things I've been incapable of moving on from. But I do like when things keep changing. As long as I keep moving, adapting, doing new things, there is no chance that I'd be idle enough to like doing nothing for a while and then inevitably start falling down the black hole in my head.
I like excitement, I crave it and when I don't get it, well, everything happening now is proof how terrible it is when I don't. Every other way to define me stems from this.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
I can feel the seconds slip into minutes, the threat of another hour wasted looming over me like an ever swinging noose.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Suddenly, I can’t take the silence anymore. I need to get up. I need to get out and do something.... anything. But, as fast I jump up, I sink back down onto the hard cushion of a solidary chair. My mind floods with a memory. I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the images, but it’s like they are burned into my consciousness.
I bury my face in my hands and take a moment to rub my eyes. How long has it been since I sat down here alone? I can’t even remember the actual movement my body made when I got up from the side of the hospital bed to make my way out to the silent, lonely waiting room. I shake my head again and try with every ounce of concentration to think of something else, anything else, but I can’t. I am trapped in this nightmare... this unforgiving, unfair nightmare.
A violent wave of emotion suddenly washes over me, churning in the pit of my stomach. I want to scream and cry and shout at the people I see walking past me. Why did this have to happen? Why us? Why my sister?
I can’t breathe. The longing that transcends every part of my being has slithered around my heart and is squeezing it to death.
Why couldn’t it have been me who died? Why did it have to be her?
Tears flow silently down my cheeks. They are the only evidence that something is wrong with me. I am staring straight ahead, not seeing what is directly in front of me. Not seeing anything except that horrible white sheet laying over a once joyful child.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
I am defined by this moment. I am defined by the seconds, minutes, and hours I share with those I love. I am defined by second chances.
Who am I?
It’s honestly a hard question
The culmination of who I want to be?
The way those I know see me?
The clothes I wear, the way I speak?
This question isn’t easy
I’ve always wanted to be someone more
Someone who strives for more
Someone who achieves more
Someone who deserves more
But that’s not who I am, is it
And I know that
They always said you can be who you want to be when you grow up
They still say you should dress for the job you want
But what they say isn’t real, what they say is just dreams and fantasies
Because I know the world doesn’t work like that, does it
So who am I then?
I’m a nobody, writing a message for a couple of random readers to see
I’m a name on a screen, nothing more and nothing less
Some people might think I’m somebody
But I’m really not…
I am nothing.