Sunday story.

I don’t know who I am. I’m not who I thought I was. I’m more. I’m complicated in ways I’ve never realized before. Not happy or sad, but both, and all the shades in between, all the time. I can be afraid of the melting glaciers and still turn up the air conditioning in my room. I can buy cheap jeans  and still feel sorry for exploited garment workers. I can contradict myself. I’m not supposed to be simple. I’m complicated. I’m a mess. I can think a hundred different things at once. I’m one insignificant creature and I’m the center of the universe. My existence has no meaning and my existence is its own meaning. I am therefore I am.