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Who Am I?
In my core and soul
So the ultimate question that haunts me to this day is quite simple yet disturbing to contemplate too harshly: Who am I?
I don’t even fucking know…
My friend reappeared into my life, from whence she left about a year ago. Her response to who I am these days?
“Who are you?”
Have I changed that much?
Am I a different me than what she remembers?
Or is she different, viewing me from the adapted lens in which she’s now accustomed?
Who the fuck am I?
I handle insurances and finances. I teach yoga and meditation. I am a sister and daughter and cousin and friend and aunt. I own my own business. I tattoo my own skin, along with many other canvas skins. I draw. I’m an avid reader. I’m an author. I live the lifestyle of a bohemian. I’m sensitive. I’m feminine. I have dreams. I love — too fucking much, it seems.
But do any of these aforementioned define who I am in my core and in my heart?
Who the fuck am I?
Simply put: I am me.
I AM
Some say I’m a hippie. Others call me a yogi. Some, a hopeless romantic. Perhaps I’m a wanderer, lost in my own fucking world of dreams and…
