It does not matter who I try to be; I am not.

It does not matter how others see me; I am not.

It does not matter how I see me, when; I am not.

As best as I am able to discern, my essence consists of a lightweight, windblown, hairy, gritty, sticky, staticky ball of confusion and fear. To pretend otherwise is simple, dreamy distraction.

More often than not, I dream.

But on occasion, I explore my essence.

I feel the grit, and I see that gritty signifies substance.

I feel the static, and I understand that staticky expresses active energy.

I feel the sticky, and I realize that sticky encourages thoughtful obstinacy.

I feel the hairy, and I appreciate its suggestion of complexity and depth.

I feel lightweight and windblown, and I recognize reality.

I can only aspire to reach the level of iconic wistfulness attained by another nuisance, the tumbleweed, by also rolling through my existence spreading seeds...

Seeds of knowledge...

Seeds of discontent...

Seeds of skepticism...

Seeds of uncertainty...

Seeds of change...

Seeds of compassion...

Seeds of productivity...

Seeds of persistence...

Seeds of interdependence...

Seeds of wonder...

Seeds...

Small seeds; that may or may not germinate.

And if they do germinate, it will likely be a small plant; that may or may not be noticed.

And if they are noticed, it will likely be after they have severed some connections with life, and become another windblown tumbleweed; for most, a nuisance.

But by severing connections; with enough seeds; and wind; and life cycles; perhaps...

Yet,

As best as I am able to discern, my essence consists of a lightweight, windblown, hairy, gritty, sticky, staticky ball of confusion and fear.

And even this, I am not.