Myself. I am No Other thing.

How can I even begin? My genesis, my teleology, my name, what I believe in, what I do, where I am?

Then pick five words to describe yourself.

I can only name one: I am honest.

But you're also an artist, a writer, a lover, a student...

I hate naming myself by these things, though. Even Magritte resisted calling himself an artist, but rather: un homme qui pense.

Je suis une humaine. Je sens, je pense, je suis. Rien autrement. Je ne mérite tout et rien. Qu'y a-t-il ?

Perhaps it is because I strayed from words for so long. I hated them, their inadequacy, and my own muteness that I experienced. I felt betrayed, that I had been abandoned. Where was my voice? Why was there only a vacuum in my throat? There was not even chaos, no irrational ramblings to work through, there was just this numbness, this silence, this white hollowness.

And who am I? How dare you ask. Is it not evident? I could tell you anything, everything, nothing, and it would all be true.

Je suis éternelle. Je suis une corps.