Undefinable. Unidentifiable. Me.

It’s always difficult to explain who I am and what I like. I’m a mixture of complexity and simplicity intertwined in my veins, catching on to every single blood cell as they try to figure out which of them will prevail. Neither one will succumb to the other. Neither will call truce. I spill tea on myself constantly, hit my head on low ceilings and cupboards, and bash my feet in objects that never move out of their place. I sit in coffee shops and bookstores searching for answers I cannot find between pages of a book, relying on the voices of strangers for guidance when I truly know that I’ll read their words, shake my head and say “wrong”. I walk streets in foreign cities colder than where I’m from to ignite sharpness in my mind until I feel like I’m the only one there alone, in the midst of the quietest loud noise my ears have ever not heard. I find grandeur present in the most minuscule of places. I watch and admire the acceptance of diversity that is lost in translation back home; appreciated, loved, and filled with the hope I need to continue believing, while others who’ve never been pointed at before never see the difference. My best friend is the kind of person who sees someone looking at her from across the room, admiring her carefree personality. She runs to them, grabs them by the arm, and welcomes them into the pages of her life story to be a part of it, even if it’s only for a page, even if it’s only for a paragraph. I stand in the same room fleeing the glaring eyes of those my story attracts, searching for the safe, dark corner in a book where the stitches that keep it together rest peacefully and with strength — it is the black hole meant to protect me from getting hurt from anyone but me. Me. I’d rather not get hurt by anyone but me. I know me. I’m the untold story of a magical creature only spoken about in fairytales. I’m the enigma of the mystical that many have tried to prove exist in real life. But, am I even real? I sometimes think that the world is nothing but an illusion, a story that an author wrote to make me his protagonist with no means to save the world I live in, inevitably doomed to see the world he wrote me in crash and burn. And yet, he just keeps writing. And even though I pick myself back up every time, I still spill tea on my pants, hit my head in the same spot in the attic room ceiling, bash my foot in objects that I see right in front of me while walking, and I turn my skin into a carousel of colors that are never intended to be admired or praised. I carry with me the hope that one day it will be viewed with indulgence; a form of art on a once perfectly flawless landscape plastered with red, blue and purple to give it mortality it so heavily deserves. Who I am and what I like are questions answered on my fingertips that imprint their marks on those who earned it. They are answered in the strands of hair bound by the elastic ribbons that match the feel of my heart. If you are even remotely close to vicinity of opening the gates of my identity, do not consider yourself anything less… than lucky.