Who am I?

The tip of my quill hovers over the page, my hand trembling as I look into the darkness.

‘Who am I?’, I ask myself and after several moments of a maddening silence, I realize that I don’t know.

It is a frightening moment, when it dawns upon you that the person you will live with for the rest of your life is the person you know the least.

When you realize that you are fated to die in this darkness; your hands forever groping in the dark; cruel panic twisting in you when you realize that you will never find myself.

Who am I?

‘A fraud’, that niggling voice in the back of my head suggests. How can I strive to tell my story, dare to enter this tunnel, when I am infinitely more muddled than everyone else? I am a fake, a con, a crow striving to fly among the doves.

I wince at the words, wanting to shut them out, but I am afraid.

If I shut out the only voice that can tell me who I am, will I truly even exist?