To you, I am simply another blogger. You know little else, not even my hair color or sex. To my employer, I am reliable. To my neighbors, I am a gardener. To a gardener, I am joke. To my insurance provider, I am a number. To my dog, I am everything. To Mr. Vincent, I am an editor. To my ex, I am an ex. To my current love, I am love. To Otto’s Market cashier, I am a coffee drinker. To the playhouse, I am a regular. To success, I am a failure. To my opponent, I am quick at the net. To my coach, I am not quick enough. To a previous landlord, I am a relief to be rid of. To the guy who collects shopping carts at the A&P, I am an inconsiderate asshole. To Jared, I am ancient. To Mr. Neville, I have so much vitality. To my brother, I am reliable. To my father, I am wrong, but I can assure you that I’m right. To Juliet, I am a terrible friend. She is completely right. To Tracy, I am on his side. To living a good and meaningful life, I am almost a success.
Many characteristics comprise the whole, but there is that one thing that overshadows the rest. That is what I’m after. This is what drives me mad.
Who am I to me?
Who are you? Who are you to them? Who are you to you?
Filling the box is incredibly difficult. When anything is possible, decisions become problematic. Such a small box, comparatively. Yet, anything can fit.