It is hard to be one person. And I will never quite make it.
But then again I am not.
I know I am not.
Even though I am one mind, with one heart and one soul, I feel that most of the time in my day I coexist with many women inside.
Most of them don’t get very well together.
But I definitely give up on the idea of being one.
It’s like living in a fish bowl. I wonder by, but as I circle around, and expect to meet no one but myself -the familiar me-, I meet with everything I want or do not want to meet.
My reflection included.
Not much I can do to make the unwanted go away.
I am and I can be a number of things.
I am tidy, but at the same time if I am in a hurry (excuses again) I can be the messiest person you can ever imagine.
It’s funny that one Saturday night I can be tucked in my sofa wearing the worst, watching a movie, unwilling to do the tiniest effort, another Saturday night I can be making new friends all night, sparkly dressed, in a bar with the loudest of music.
I can respect who I am, listen to what my body and mind have to say, next minute I am pushing my boundaries and setting myself in awkward situations and behaviors because I feel that’s what I should be doing to feel comfortable about me from time to time.
I can listen to Gregory Alan Isakov one night, with a glass full of wine, the next day I am full of energy and run 12 km with my ears full of storming Hardwell.
Always dreaming of pines, mountains, horizons, and lakes. Always dreaming and scheduling now, today, tomorrow.
I can be understanding and giving in the morning and stubborn about things and people at night.
I am constantly smiling and constantly grumpy.
I effortlessly have conversations about relationships, to shopping, to life’s greatest turnarounds and my greatest fears.
I am always the greatest version of my self, all me.
I give up on trying to figure out who am I.
Happy and worried, messy and determined, this is all me.
It’s always been me.