i know that we are defined by constructed standards: i know my name, where i live, how old i am, and what i will be doing this june.
but on the metaphysical level, on the plane which i cannot really qualify nor quantify -- on the world that does not pay heed to flesh, and names, and addresses, and university courses -- i do not know who i really am.
growing up, i think, i have not always had a clear picture of who i was.
mostly, i conform to what people think of me, or how they want me to be. in front of my parents, i always see to it that they deem me fit to be their son. sometimes, even when i know it is superfluous, i feign religiosity. i try to wake up for breakfast. i try to talk like a good older brother. and i always strive to have proper behavior.
but does that really define me, or am i allowing myself to be defined by their frigid standards?
in front of friends, i am the cool guy who drinks, and smokes, and curses, and adapts well to all sorts of people. i can crack jokes pretty good. and i am loved by them. but when i am alone, with only my thoughts to keep me company, i often ask myself: is this who i really am?
i know it's too early for me to be gobbled alive by all these existentialist queries, and that i ought to reserve all these life questions when i get older, say when i turn 50, but i can't help it. perhaps this is my attempt at deciphering why, during unguarded moments, i often get sentimental and inconsolably sad.
i know that the novelty of sentimental and emotional sorrow wanes as one ages, but i think mine will drag on for longer than usual.
i think i need rescuing.
but i do not know from what,
or by whom.