Really.

Who am I? If I am not a static set of feelings and thoughts, if I am constantly mutating, constantly changing my frames of references, constantly shaping my desires in different moulds, then who am I, really?

And in this eroding myth of identity, is it really possible to identify, empathise, or 'relate to'? Because, who am I most like, at this moment- a slang talking teenager, revelling in gossip and romance and heightened hormones; a sincere software professional, living one day to the next in a flurry of spreadsheets and code; a wife, enjoying the symbols of domesticity and intimacy, all the representations of security; a writer, struggling to find coherence and validation; an exile, hungering for home and her own beloved room and posters and music; a rebel without a cause; a poet; a dreamer; a caged bird; a shopaholic; a consumer?

Who am I, really?

Sometimes, it is necessary to ask oneself these questions, to set the context for one's daily drudgery. Sometimes, it is necessary to say- at this moment, I am the blue rectangles of my bedroom windows, I am the tops of the bare trees, I am the smoke from a distant chimney, I am the flight of a grey pigeon. At this first conscious moment of my morning, I am the result of this image in my head, and nothing else.

Then, there is no need to ask, "Do you see the writing in my head? That is who I am, really."

I am the writing in my head.