For some reason, I have been inspired to write prose. Although I consider myself as more of a poet, I have decided to give prose another try.
This time, I am choosing to write something about identity- my identity, and my coming to terms with it as a twenty-something-year-old. In any case, it’s just some thoughts that I have been having lately, and I would like to illustrate them in prose form.
With that, enjoy.
I am human. I am of flesh and earth. I have been born into a world who has admired “different” for all of the wrong reasons of identity. I am an Asian-American diaspora, a shadow remnant of my ancestors and their ancestors. I am of a lost tongue, a lost history, a lost heritage separated by generations of blood. I am who you don’t expect me to be: a poet, a Francophile, a penguin aficionado. Perhaps you don’t expect me to love girls (or boys) in the same way that I love skin and bone, indiscriminate to the touch. The heart, for that matter.
I am not who you think I am, or should be. I am both of word and the wordless, of dialogue and silence. I wander in lust, a wanderlust caught in new discoveries beyond my fingertips. I am the love to your deuce, a tennis match made in heaven. Love and peace, pieces of me that I have never really revealed to the world, let alone to anyone at all. I am self-assured, I am afraid, I am loud and quiet, and this confusion between what’s right and wrong in body and mind concerns me. Contradictions were made for people, after all.
Who am I? I am.
– The Finicky Cynic