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I don't know how to link playlists, but jazz is my jazz. ha

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I am not too proud to say that I have downloaded all crossword apps known to man and have spent a little more than intended on stacks of newspapers that I do not fully read, but throw away when I am done with their crosswords. This is a picture of me. It is a picture of what keeps me sane and what I usually keep to myself.

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This song has been on replay in my head since I watched "Disney Fantasia" in 2007. I have not stopped thinking about it. It is a song that is as "me" as my name. I consider it my song, as the range of emotions I feel while listening to it is unparalleled. The first idea I had when we were assigned this activity was this song, so it would be foolish of me to not include it because of what others might think of it (that's something else to unpack)

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Philosophy is a part of me. It is the counterpart to my anxiety and boredom, and it is what I want to devote my life to. Therefore, I consume philosophical books as often as life lets me. When ordering "The Consolation of Philosophy," I expected a regularly shaped book, and to say I almost burst into tears upon laying eyes on the book is not far from the truth. But after long deliberation, reading a few pages and talking to my father, I arrived to a question that had been troubling thinkers for ages but had just begun to trouble me: Why do we think that things that are not done the way we like or are used to, are wrong?

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The Master and Margarita - Mikhail Bulgakov

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The Master and Margarita - Mikhail Bulgakov

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A book I do not and will not shut up about.
After my 5th time reading this Russian novel, I have decided I cannot get enough. Russian literature speaks to me, especially this protest novel targeting Stalin and his brutal attacks on artists and the people of Russia. I am a firm believer that everyone should read this masterpiece.
This book has changed me like no other book, not spiritually or mentally, but I have found the refuge I have constantly looked for in literature in this book.

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Fashion is a way I have always expressed myself. It is a part of my family life and my personal life. Although I just recently started using them, I have had a longstanding obsession with trench coats. The trench coat has had a bloody history and so have I, though mine is metaphorically bloody and has to do with fashion and not crimes against humanity. Ever since I started using trench coats, I have felt more myself. I have begun embracing my own style and likings, which let me embrace my self-expression, not belittle it.

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I am not the “me” I think I am. I am the “me” I think you think I am.

So, I’d like to propose the question: To what extent is knowing the self feasible?

Knowing oneself is an illusion, because, to what extent is one, oneself?

While the "me" today would frown on the pictures I posted or the clothes I wore in 2017, even 2018, the "me" then was satisfied. While the "me" then would despise the shoes I chose to use today, or the way I organize myself, or even the way I present myself to others, the "me" of today is satisfied.

I ran into my former therapist recently. She told me that I had “grown,” “changed.”

But, does that change mean I am getting closer to cracking the code many think surrounds my identity, or have I gotten farther away? When will we be satisfied with the “I” we currently are?

As the blisterinng rays of Lima’s 6:00am sun injured the disgustingly white walls of my bedroom, the dread of living through that day crept up my skin. The harsh reality I was presented with by my mirror physically hurt. Was the “me” today worth enough?

Identity can be crumpled by oneself or by the people who you surround yourself with. But one trumps the other. I found myself writing words by a mind that was not my own, but, then again, the words we write are rarely our own. When do other’s words become our own, and at what point, if any, does self-destruction become a method to find oneself?

My sheets wrapped around my body and created a feeling of disgust. The textured memories of my past made my temples ache. Unsure of what to name the feeling, I got dressed. Not to express, but to hide my expressions. As if I had to remain hidden. Hidden because I was not ready, I was not “me” yet.

But, do we ever become ourselves, or is what we call becoming ourselves realizing we have been ourselves all along?

Personally, I have decided to end the quest to find myself. Not because I think it is too hard or even impossible, but because I believe that knowing oneself is not dependent on time or age. Living with the “you” of the present and not constantly trying to seek the “you” of your future, is what I have been searching for. And speaking from experience, chasing the future will only yield uncomfortable sheets and an infuriating feeling of nothingness.