every other time i have defined myself by aiming at what i want to be and then moving towards that. i have sketched definitions in murky biro on rumpled pages of my notebooks and then taken my aim. i have written long-winded histories describing the stories i want to unfold the way i would want others to speak as they told the story of how i was when i walked in. i have used evocative words: "creator" "badass" "gypsy" to describe what i am, in some cases - my race and the race that i run, but also the way that i want to be, and the navigation of the path that i want to find. but now there is no defining no definition will do because this is not me sculpting myself again out of lumps of clay that i pushed back last time and now am causing to reform. i'm not even made of clay anymore; i am not malleable, but stripped raw - pulled down to the most basic of essences, and yet i do not know what that is. perhaps in time i'll find out, but for the moment i don't even know how to try.