I hate About pages. They’re such pressure to right. They ask you, “Who are you?” As if it was that easy to condense yourself into a couple of sentences. I always feel like I’m trying to write a Personal Information form in an essay format when I write these things. And yet, it is so impersonal.

Who am I?

I am a world. I am the product of my parents, my environment, my school, my teachers, and the random stranger that once told me that I should join their book club when I was 10 and they were (I knew) already in college.

I can be as slow as a snail, and yet, when plodded with sufficient force I can move as fast as moonlight. I am constantly confused, and so as to safeguard myself from confusion, I either drown myself in work, or feast on manga and anime for days. And when these aren’t enough, I plunk myself in front of desk and steel my nerves to the medium of writing. Writing my thoughts is like trying to tamp down the wind. It’s a fierce battle and after ten pages, I sometimes win.

I have a hodgepodge mix of friends that I keep in a good chemical mix. Too many and the sheer effort of keeping in contact with all of them overwhelms me. Too little, and the conversation gets repetitive. Depending on where they stand around me, they see a different facet of my persona. With all of them, I wear changeable masks. In the end though, all these masks are me.

My passions start and fizzle like defective fireworks. Keeping them aflame demands constant work and perseverance.

I think I know myself better now than when I was 20.

I definitely know myself better now than when I was 12.



I’ll be the same,



I think.