My fingers stroke the keys and my thoughts fill the blank page. I’m redecorating the rooms of my memory as I write my story. I remove all the pictures and paintings from the walls. I paint each wall with the appropriate color – brilliant sky blue for these memories, angry red for those, grey for the others, and black for a select few. Then, no matter how hard I try, I can’t get the framed thoughts and emotions back on the walls the way they were before.
As I write, and as I allow myself to recall the tiny details that have been ME, I realize that many of my memories, for better or worse, have somehow been a little off. I’ve remembered this thing or that…people, places, and events…as happening a certain way or at a certain time. I start to analyze timelines and faces. I start putting it together in a somewhat different light. I realize that some of my photos have been crooked all along.
Who am I, really?
Cooley said “I am not who you think I am; I am not who I think I am; I am who I think you think I am”. Is this true?
Please share your thoughts below. I’d love to hear what you think about who we really are.