‘So, I guess we are who we are for a lot of reasons.’

When you look beyond the organs, the skeletons and the biological aspects of the body and begin to consider what makes a person a person, it’s like plunging into a huge abyss that has no sides to hold on to. Each ‘person’ is a different abyss, but there’s no size, shape or appearance. It’s like a free fall with small ledges to hold on so we don’t fall too far. To hold on to any part of ourselves, to escape into any other person, it’s really quite difficult. And then you come to question if the word ‘person’ is real. It’s too generic, to encompassing; yet, in many ways everyone is different and in many ways, everyone is just the same and it’s the most appropriate word in the world.

Quite frequently of late, I’ve been thinking that I feel lost. If someone asked me what made me who I am, I don’t think I could answer with anything but a list of other people. We’re supposed to give ourselves too many definitions, whether it’s tag lines on social networking websites or descriptions on job application forms. When each person in an abyss so huge, how are we supposed to pull anything out of our depths? We have an extraordinary capacity; things we have been, things we are and things we will be. Unfortunately, there is just no cohesion.

Sometimes, we become so busy in searching for something, working towards something and being something which arises from an underlying version of ourselves. It becomes consuming to present ourselves in so many different lights to so many different people. The typical response to this will be,

‘Well, just be yourself.’
But it doesn’t work like that, the self has so many selves that it becomes increasingly easy to forget ourselves.
Most of the time, we’re nothing more than fragments.


I think sometimes that a person cannot be a whole thing. In fact, I think that a lot of the time. I know we live in a society that can be explained by science, but there just has to be more to it than that. I can’t help but feel that the word person and the word self have very different meanings. Much like body and soul. Sometimes I believe that maybe we are an abyss and from time to time, we’ll stumble upon a fragment that enlightens us, just so we don’t feel lost anymore. We’ll just find something that was probably there all along.

Quite frequently of late, I’ve felt that there has been something missing. And I’ve discovered that I’m not lost. There are just aspects of myself that are absent. For weeks now, a major thought has been plaguing me. I can’t remember my favourite music anymore. I spend all of my time listening to the same album and I don’t really connect with anything else. Music doesn’t embrace me into a place of content solitude it used to and I’m not sure how something so important to me just went away. I also can’t remember which genre is my favourite to read and the faces of fictional characters that used to be my friends have slowly disappeared and honestly, it makes me really sad.

I hope at some point I’ll be able to describe myself as more than an English student and a coffee wench. I hope at some point I’ll stop listening to the same single song on repeat and that reading won’t be such a chore. The irony of this post lies in the title, it has all come from a reaction caused by reading ‘The Perks of Being A Wallflower.’ I miss the escapism of books and music; they stopped me from feeling fragmented. Reading Stephen Chbosky’s novel left me feeling more absent than ever. At some point, I’ll remember the reasons I am who I am. Living in the present does not always confirm presence and really, it can be such an eerie feeling.


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