I’m a ball, according to my roommates. I think it’s just ‘cause I am a corky, culturally ambiguous person who refuses social boundaries.  As a tumble weed, there is no consistency and the collective is not clear unless you take a step back and realize that the blurry shapes do form something tangible.  I’m not a Monet though, so please don’t stare for long periods of time, because I’ll probably evade your analysis as soon as I realize that you’re trying to make sense of me.

I don’t play fair all of the time, though.  There is power, a product of self-allusion, in obstructing a clear view of who I am.  Yet, I am not manipulative, simply selective and weary.  I do confuse, and am confused by, people. I’m flawed, like every human being chasing symmetry.

I feel alien-like sometimes.  Other people become more sometimes; they become “They’’. Not that I believe I dawned from a tumbleweed from the heavenly bodies.  I feel disconnected from most people.  Oh, I can empathize with them, surely, but I’ve had severe lacks of mutuality in my short lifetime.

Nevertheless, people still like me. I’m no self-victimizing narcissist, no, but I’m still going willing to be who I am to the fullest extent despite complications because it keeps me at higher level of contentedness; simplicity and dedication to the self. In that sense, I feel like a snowflake, my thumbprint’s subtle differences feel like they glow a stubborn virgin white.

Nevertheless, I realize that I am far from perfect and am doing all in my power to amend myself.  I am saving me from me.