I figured since this is suppose to have my deepest thoughts, maybe who I am is hidden in my thoughts. All I found were entries of anger and sorrow.
Am I anger and sorrow?
The playground seemed like a logical place to look next. So I headed out to the playground with hope who I am was buried in the sand long ago. I began to dig and I found childhood memories and toys that were forgotten by their owners.
Am I only a memory? Do material objects make who I am?
Without a clear answer I headed home from the playground. So caught up into where to look next I stumbled into my parents room. I looked up, and then suddenly it hit me. The attic. My parents always hide gifts in the attic. Wouldn't knowing who I was be the greatest gift of all? I rummaged through boxes of old things bathed in dust. I don't think I'm that old. Besides my age can't be who I am. Can it?
I am looking for myself.
So I checked the clock. They say time tells all but as each hour pasted, time began to fail me, more and more.
Next, I checked one of the most obvious places. I checked my facebook. It is said to have a whole profile on me, so I thought it was bound to know who I am. I signed on to see that the profile was filled with my hometown, my religious beliefs and conversations had between my friends.
Is that who I am?
I started to get sleepy. So I closed my eyes, then was suddenly shocked as I remembered a place I never looked. My heart seemed like a decent place to look. I took a journey to my heart. There at the gates to my heart was a book. Unfinished it sat untouched and untitled. I opened it to find it was the story of my life. I had entries of how I conversed, my thoughts, how I thought of my friends, my wants, my dreams, my ambitions and everything.
Was this who I am? An unfinished, untitled book?
I stopped looking for who I am. Instead I started becoming who I want to be, and when I become that person I will know who I am.
