I am not who I want to be. Does that mean I am not who I am supposed to be? I do not know. I only know that I am not who I envisioned myself to be according to the fantasies and daydreams from today and yesterday, even going all the way back to my adolescence. According to my six year old self, I am not the singer I am supposed to be. The ten year old Me barks that I am nowhere near the drummer I am supposed to be. The thirteen year old Me shakes his head because I am not the artist I am supposed to be. The fifteen year old Me screams that I am disappointingly not the guitarist I am supposed to be. How about that nineteen year old Me who professed himself to be a writer? Said he was going to write dozens of novels? The twenty-something Me has a litany of under-achievements I have amassed. Perhaps most egregiously I am not the father my twenty-one year old self had espoused to be. In recent years I have also come to realize I have not been the husband, son, brother nor friend I had longed envisioned myself to be. So who am I? What is my identity? Do I want a new identity? Do I want to be someone else? No. None of this is to suggest that I am not grateful for my life. Or family. Friends. Acquaintances. Accomplishments, thus far. It just means I aim for more. To do more. To be more. I just want to be the ideal Me doing ideal things that ideally enrich the lives of all those I encounter, and those who encounter my music, my stories, my children. Identity is that lasting thing we leave behind when we’re dead and gone.
Read: Love Invents Us by Amy Bloom
Watched: Mortal Instruments: City of Bones, Sons of Anarchy: Season 6
Listened: Alice in Chains, Esthero, iFanboy podcast, Flunk, Hooverphonic, Menomena, The Nerdist Podcast, Russian Circles