If I were to write a story and use me as a character, I would.

To be honest, I never truly thought I would say this but, now, I know for a fact that I see myself as me. The way one struggles to see oneself throughout their existence: I am what I am and what the hell can I do to change? When I ask this question and answer it plainly, I do not attach any negative overtone to the query’s essence, all I’m really implying is that nature is a thing of being not shaping and shaping is human’s unnaturally acquired response to everything that scares him (or her, feminists).

Sculpting oneself is quite a task but sometimes hands are only hands, and they are meant only to sculpt what nature freely offers us while we repeatedly repudiate its organic challenge.

We seek what is not inclined to gain from us through a symbiotic relationship nor give us anything in any dependable manner because we like to bend what cannot bow and we like to chisel what does not break.

I can break, bend and kneel. I can melt, cry and dance. I can live, survive and even die. I can fly high and dive deep into the most wonderful adventures and I never forget where I came from. I know now, it’s not me who needs shaping; it’s what nature so thoughtlessly furnishes me with by not picking and choosing how green my luck is going to be like.

Oh man, if I knew that ten years ago… ~