I should have a name. Mine is all borrowed from people that existed before me. I should have a space to call home. Yet, I don’t even know the place I was born or if I fit in the place where I actually live. I own a face, a physical space and my own feelings. Sometimes I am just like any other person. Identical. Sometimes I feel different from any other living being. Identity. I never felt the same twice. There was a time I believed we could reinvent feelings. Each moment is genuine. I live genuinely. I wish I could describe myself. I can’t. It’s breathless.
I am not tall. I am not short. I am not young. I am not old. I am not pretty. I am not ugly. I am egoistic. I am altruistic. I love music. Sometimes music irritates me. I love reading. Still, I can go without reading for months. I love watching movies. I regard most of them as the perfect cure for insomnia. Shall I continue?