Who am I?
It’s a question we all pose, yet its answers can differ vastly depending on who considers the question. I think myself to be quite nice, kind of funny, and rather good-looking. You on the other hand might think me to be too cheerful, too serious, and perhaps a little too skinny. And I think given the particular time, we are both right about all those things.
But enough about me and you, let’s talk about me! After all, if my “About Me” page was in fact about you, everyone would be very confused and no one would give a darn about either of us. I doubt you’d ever venture back to this site again. Of course, if my “About Me” was about you, perhaps you’d come back to read more about yourself. Because I would write something really awesome about you. It wouldn’t be too hard, I don’t think. It’s likely I have a much higher opinion of you then I do for myself. Maybe even I have a higher opinion of you than you do. Who knows? But if you’re coming here melancholy, indifferent, or low, I want you to leave chuckling, optimistic, and refreshed.
But back to who I am, since you so desperately want to know. I’m a man with much to say but my introversion and diplomacy often render me saying too little. So I write. I write funny little stories that might make little sense but still perhaps say things better than I could speak them. In fact, speaking of things that make no sense is what I enjoy speaking most about. Why do power boxes have a picture of a scary electric power monster? Why do major sandwich shops have such crappy chip selection? What’s up with the platypus’s face? I suppose I’m a writer that ponders the meaningless and jokes about it, yet posits meaning when I think I’ve found it. That was almost poetic. Oh, I’m a poet too. Not the Emily Dickinson type but more like the could’ve-been-a-rapper-if-I-wasn’t-so-white type. I love to drop some rhymes on ya; they’re just not likely to be about boobies and guns.
Who am I? One of my heroes pondered this question. This hero was a pasty-white German theologian who worshipped in a black church and was hung for standing up to Hitler. The man was Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Before he was executed he was imprisoned, and while imprisoned, he wrote. Pondering perhaps the deepest question we know, he penned what I often feel, and it sums up me better than I could. He said-
Who am I? This or the Other?
Am I one person today and tomorrow another?
Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others,
And before myself a contemptible woebegone weakling?
Or is something within me still like a beaten army
Fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?
Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, Thou knowest, O God, I am thine!