No Really, Who Are You?

So Small, Comparatively

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.

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