Can of Worms

What am I? I am fallacy. I am a voice you need—nay, yearn, to hear. I am that which I need not fear. I am you, and I am she.  I am all those I need not be. I am what I cannot be.

I have won cockfights in Estonia and have understood—and conquered!—the Indian political system. I write heart-wrenching war stories during the middle of the night—in my sleep. Why, just the other day I’d been treading on water for six straight hours.

I fought in the revolution of 1857 and figured out the workings of the teleportation device. I was six, when I discovered the meaning of life and its purpose, but was too busy saving the world from killer cyborgs to have the time to write it down. I taught Elvis everything he knew.

I convinced Sinatra to give up the bottle and winked and nudged Einstein as we ridiculed the appalling imbecility of the human race.

And so, today I stand to protest against this indignation. This gross violation of the sanctity of my self.

I have no justification. No apparent tactic for persuasion.

I am what I am. Warts and self-obsession and all.

I am no refugee; no poor victim of this harsh world. I am what I want to be and much less. I am no convenience, no easy sentence. No I am a trilogy: long, winding, frustrating and intense.

I am what I saw and where I saw. I am what I heard and all I smelt.  I morph into this and sometimes, into that. No sir, I am no easy sentence.

I search for some sense of importance—of validation though I look down at those who “conform”. I am she who loves all, and that which she spurns.

I am incongruity and inconsistency. I am which wasn’t meant to be.

I am wonderful at masking my narcissism under pretty words and grand punctuation. I am theatrical. I am apologetic.

I am truth. I am me. And I’m sorry.

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