What am I?
Sometimes I look at the sewn-patterned folds in my hand. My crossroads of veins are faint, stronger in others. my arms, an array of moles forming constellations of my naming. Many sparse minute fibres creeping up the back of my hand. Long wispy hair, a gift from my Mother, that will take a resemblance of a growing forest clearing in years to come. Nice enough nails worn down by stress, habits, and negligence until reduced to a manicurist’s nightmare. The acne scars are constant reminders of my attempts to hide my genetic makeup with makeup. These things lead me to wonder of the complexity in front of me, to think of my composition. I am neither a billion atoms gathered at a single span of time, a small detour compared to the journey thus far, nor a singular being, but both superimposed atop each other. I am at once a string of organs, a mind trying to understand itself, a seemingly Sisyphean task, a time bound container of experiences, and an inheritance of genetic ooze.