i am not defined by how much i love the smell of fresh cut grass.
i am not constructed of oceans of laughter.
i am not Vancouver. Not Singapore. Not Australia.
i am not my mother or my father.
i am not my brother.
i am not the wind that blows through my being. i am not the sand i carried in my shoes from Vancouver to Shanghai. i am not the lingering hug or the kept/broken promises. i am not the secrets we whispered into the night entwined in each others arms. i am not the smile on the faded photograph you have pinned onto your wall. i am not the sketch of us in that photo frame in the bottom of a box in your closet.
i am not an idea.
i am frightened and alone. i am dreaming. i am living. i am learning. i am growing up. i am struggling. i am leaving. i am living. i am starting.
you are not the summation of your past, and neither am i.
i am breathing. i am giving.
i am pretending. i am dying. i am not.
i am confused. and confusing.
but i am not the summation of my past, and i am done chasing ghosts.
we spend so much of our lives living in haunted glass houses, aware and terrified of the moments our truths will shatter. but i am not the hipster barista anymore than i am the starving artist on the street.
we can run away to the farthest corners of the earth as much as we want, but that doesn’t change anything any more than what we want it to.
i am not the girl you knew, and you are not the boy i loved and we are not the ghosts of the people we were any more than we are different people now.