As I sit here, staring at a blank white computer screen,
almost as blank as my brain
with a head full of discombobulated ideas
no seemingly complete direction,
Having, myself, an array of factors
that identify me
without any clear indicator of which one is more dominant,
or if there even is one
And somehow being unable
to just say what I mean
I sit back and ask myself,
what is there to say?
Because really, who am I?
Is my own self-identified
value as a writer challenged by this?
Is my inability to describe how I
an Asian American, combination of East and West
an individual struggling to narrow down my orientation
feel about this paralyzing?
Is there a growing fear that I am not whole,
but rather a combination of traits and behaviors
that are ultimately incoherent?
There is no singular decider of identity
and that independence with the subject is worrisome.
I can claim to be a Thai woman but those are just classifications
they mean nothing about who I am
Various parts of who I am are not complete
Religion: Buddhist? Christian? atheist?
and it may take many years for it to be
Complete.
But as I struggle, as I type furiously
no plan whatsoever, this is bound to fail, right?
I’m reminded that I may not be complete
that there is no definitive whole IDENTITY for who I am,
that it’s possible that I’m failing at being myself
But I have to remember that the parts that remain are whole
in their own bizarre way
Are what they are.
I’m not Thai or American, I’m
Both.
I’m not sure about who I like, what I worship, what I like to do, and if I exist.
That’s okay.
I may actually be terrible at writing, and this whole piece is a joke.
It hurts, but there’s always room for improvement.
I hate to be sappy, but there is comfort in the fact that
Fractured
Torn apart
Individual pieces of character
That don’t match and probably never will
Can make someone whole.
I am the summation of my parts.
They may not match, but they are what they are.
Who cares if they don’t?
We’re all just stained glass in some way.
Images that are comprised of different fragile pieces
of different sizes and shapes and colors
that don’t fit together neatly
And maybe are broken before they were even put together
But when put together,
Still create something.
Maybe not as pretty as we would like,
But whole.
Something.
I sit back and reread everything. It’s corny.
Maybe the gimmick of broken lines is too much.
Eh. Screw it. I’ve decided to let my inner conflict
is it good? bad? good enough
go away. It is what it is.
Maybe this is a mess. Maybe this actually sucks.
But that’s fine. It’s how I like to write things.
That’s better than nothing.
