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Who is merely the form following the function what (adapted from V for Vendetta). Now, what I am is a human, a person, an existing essense of something that is alive. But who is that face in the mirror when I am waking up and brushing my teeth? Who is the emotional connection beneath the rather masked expression that I place on my face when among others? Who is the self that is everything that the other is not?
Somewhere between the villain version of me and the hero version of me (both believed to be the true me by different groups of people that have taken having known me negatively or positively), there's a smiling kid lying in warm, tall grass in the sun, watching a beetle crawl across his outstretched arm.
Can I be the savior, the sage, the legend spoken of by those particularly impressed with my deeds? Can I also be the betrayer, the criminal, the misanthrope, the incubus whose vile nature is spat out in contemptuous words by ex-girlfriends?
Do I have something of a permanent nature that will bind me to my virtues or condemn me to repeat my mistakes? Or is my nature contrarily so mutable that I can no more take my failings as permanent condemnations of my soul than take my virtues as being true, accurate reflections of it?