A single individual can carry multiple personas within themselves. I am no different. My conversations, my laughter, and my existence take shifts depending on the people I am around. When I am alone, all those personas start to blissfully submerge, converge and diverge at the same time, often confusing me, forcing me to ask myself: what am I, who am I, what I want, what I need, and what I dream of.
During conversations, I am often opinionated. There's black and white, there's right and wrong, there's yes and no. Desolation, however, brings me to a void where my eyes, my heart, and my mind can not recognize the lines in between. There's no black and white anymore, everything is a swirl of different shades of gray, one lighter or darker than the other.
Wrong and right.
Yes or no.
I become indecisive and question myself if I really have to pick a side?
Making decisions is harder these days. Day after day, I am experiencing new whirlwinds of misery, joy, satisfaction, regret, bliss, calm, chaos, and hundred other inexplicable emotions.
Is this what it feels like to be an adult?
For most of my life, I have lived as someone's daughter, someone's sister, and someone's friend. The tangled relations didn't end there. I was someone's relative, I was a girl that lived near someone's abode, I was a girl that studied in the same class as someone's child, and I was a human that breathed the same air as someone else. Thus, life had never been short of eagle eyes, calculating minds, pointed fingertips, muffled sarcasm, and predatory intentions.
I thought I could not get more prepared, more strong, more level-headed, more compassionate, more empathetic, more what others want me to be. But, somehow, the burden I feel on my soldiers is getting heavier, the intensity of others' eyes on me is more piercing, and the fear of slipping up and falling into a labyrinth of my own mistakes is more pronounced.
I am on a quest: an attempt to find myself, my aspirations, and my conscience.
Who am I?
Who do I want to be?
The answers are definitive yet variable at the same time. After all, there's neither a lower nor a higher limit on how much I can shape myself as someone you want me to be. I have been living off your ideals, your ideas, your expectations, and your aspirations for a long time. You are the artist, the writer, the creator of my personas. Only you can decide: what should I become, what can I become, and what will I become.
Now and then, though futile my attempts, I'll revolt against your ideas, your expectations, and your perception of me. I'll try to paint a persona that represents me: flesh and blood, mind and soul, on and within.