Then I chopped off my hair and withered in my room.

I fell into these pits of self actualization and self loathing. Of understanding who I was and who I wanted to be, but at the same time knowing nothing. People know me for my love. For the way I speak about art in all its mediums and my history with it. The way I’ve devoted myself to writing about mosaics and people and memory. I talk about art and my love for it in the most abstract ways. I am terrified of stagnation because I know myself to be more, but I’m equally terrified of escalation and the fact that I’m not the same as I used to be. I have wrinkles on my forehead, and I tell myself it’s due to the past two years of Vitamin D deficiency, but in actuality, I’ve gotten four hours of sleep every day for months on end. And I look at myself and my body so far outside of my person. I don’t want to be a snapshot, or a shell of a name you think you know. But then how come I am stuck in thinking about this person as stoic and unmoving? And on that same level, an empath? A good listener? Someone with an inferiority complex? And if I’m no longer any of those things, am I anything? And if I am something, how do I know I am?