I’ve never known who I want to be. I’ve never known what I want. The phrase “Just be yourself” has always made my stomach queasy. Sylvia Plath once wrote, “I am still so naive; I know pretty much what I like and dislike; but please, don’t ask me who I am.” Sure, there are things I like. I like playing piano and collect hobbies like a girl scout’s badges, but they are all fleeting. I tell myself it is because there is so much to learn, it’s difficult to stick with one thing. Unfortunately, that is not the truth. There is not a single hobby, job, interest, etc. that ultimately fascinates me because I don’t know myself. Playing piano started because my sister knew a few measures of a couple songs and I wanted to be just like her. Playing guitar started because my dad played and so did his dad. I never met my grandfather and he passed down his guitar to my dad. For unrelated reasons my dad no longer has that guitar, but it inspired me to learn nonetheless. Art came from both my brother and sister being skilled at it, so obviously I followed suit. I crochet because I saw it on tiktok. I read because I wanted to be seen as an intellectual. Nothing came from pure intentions of enjoying myself. In film and literature, brilliant people are plagued by despair. Often I find myself longing for the kind of passion that drives one to insanity. I don’t entirely agree with romanticizing pain in this way. As John Green wrote in The Fault in Our Starts, “Pain demands to be felt”, but it is not their pain that made them remarkable. I don’t exactly know why I’m writing this. I think I want to produce something that will last and putting things on the internet feels more permanent than my journal. Longer lasting until I don’t pay for the domain and hosting of this website at least.