I was told recently to think about what makes me who I am, and I want to be completely honest: I have absolutely no idea. They told me to think. Was I made up of the movies I’ve seen or the celebrities I love or the things that I think. I don’t know. And the more I think about what makes me so damn “special” the more I lose track of what exactly makes me, me. So I’ll start with the things I know. I read. A lot. There is only one book that I have read that I don’t like and that is Romeo and Juliet because honestly, they were both dumb kids in love. I watch television. If I calculated how much time I spent watching all my different TV shows, it would add up to more than 5 months. I’ve seen more movies than I can even remember and countless more I wish I could forget. I play basketball and I’m good enough to be better than some people but I’m not incredible. I’m smart. Smart enough to feel proud but not smart enough. And all of these things I know and none of them are the building blocks of me. So maybe there is not a me to build. Maybe all of the movies and books and TV shows I’ve watched have made me become what I wish I could be. A survivor. Brave. Intriguing. Mysterious. A little presumptuous. A person someone can believe in. A person someone would want to be around. I think maybe instead of me, I’m all the characters that I’ve loved. The ones that I’ve loved and lost. The ones that I’ve watched win. The ones that I’ve seen get back up when everything looks bleak. The ones that I care about more than myself. Maybe I’m my own character built up from the ashes and tears and ruins of the ones left behind, forgotten, or finished. Maybe what makes me special is that I’ve got a little bit of every kind of person inside. I am brave and kind and adventurous and mysterious and wonderful and magical and all the words in between.
Everything in the world makes me who I am. And it does it for you too.