Teenage neo-romanticist writer.
I've known myself for many years, yet I don't know myself at all. Who am I? Surely I know that I'm a living being; I know I can feel and see and taste and hear. I am conscious—I know my name, my age. Yet who resides underneath my skin and tissue? Who thinks and feels and sees and tastes and hears? This I do not know. My life has been led by change—this I do know. Some might say I'm introverted and coldly rational. Others might argue I'm a bright, creative soul. At the end, you are what others see of you. How do I see myself? My soul—if such exists—is an aquarelle of everything I've ever experienced. I reminisce about the people I've met, the feelings I've felt, and the places I've been to. I reminisce about the music that once travelled through my veins for the very first time or about the weather—the cold that burned my lungs or the heat that melted my skin. Each daily impulse is a grain of sand that makes up me. And who am I? I still don't know.
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