I have no story.
Don’t get me wrong. My life isn’t boring at all.
Forgive me if you please, but I just cannot relate.
Stories of abuse, love and heartbreak
Stories of a career, passion and art
Stories of first hand encounters, of historical events and political opinions
Stories of life struggles.
I have none.
I have chapters though. Lots of them, with no proper structure.
Stories have a beginning, a middle and an end. My chapters are contradictory and never in order.
Do you hear me?
When I was younger, I watched older people talk confidently about things they feel for really strong. I thought, that’s what being an adult meant. Believing in something so much that you would stand up for it.
I am not indifferent. I believe and my beliefs are a huge part of me.
I love too. And I love fiercely.
But, I refuse to let this be all of me.
I see people. Amazing people. People I look up to. People who are beautiful. People with life changing, life altering stories.
But the words, “definition” , “revolve around”, I don’t associate myself with.
I have no story, not because I refuse to grow up but simply because, stories have an ending.
If identity is defined as ‘the fact of being who or what a person is’ , I would rather not have an IDENTITY.