wanted: a sense of self

My identity is a mystery, even to myself

I am everywhere, in stars, rain, music, art, books, smiles of friends, stares of strangers

And yet somehow, these are all reflections viewed through water

Slightly warped, and never quite complete

Excerpts but never the full piece

But through all their imperfections and inconsistencies they are still true, still me

I am made up of my life, and my life is made of me

And yet -

Still I search

If I’m nothing more than a collage of what is around me - scattered bits of everyone and everything

Then what is uniquely, intrinsically me?

They say I am nothing more than a blank canvas to be colored by the artistry of life

But this cannot be true - I’m a piece composed of a myriad and multitude of notes, genres, artists, adaptations

But I too am the composer

So even though I never really know myself, who I am and who I will become

I’m finding out, through every one and every thing, every day