I’ve never really been able to define myself. I assume most people have difficulty doing so, but I’ve never gotten close to even a broad categorization. I’ve questioned my sanity more times than I can remember and my own fickle-mindedness often gets on my nerves. It’s a gut wrenching feeling, not knowing who you are or what you’re doing with your days. It’s like a ball of anxiety that stretches from the pit of your stomach to the base of your throat. You learn to ignore it, but every now and then, it tends to take you by surprise. It’ll press down on your shoulders with such force that you won’t be able to breathe. It’ll gnaw at your brain day in and day out. It’ll make carrying out simple tasks extravagantly difficult to do. I should know, it gets to me more often than not. I’ve been looking for an explanation for longer than I can remember, and I finally found something that made me feel slightly better about my existence.
Csikszentmilhalyi wrote in Creativity: Flow and the Psychology of Discovery and Invention:
“If there is one word that makes creative people different from others, it is the word complexity. Instead of being an individual, they are a multitude. Like the color white that includes all colors, they tend to bring together the entire range of human possibilities within themselves. Creativity allows paradox, light, shadow, inconsistent, even chaos-and creative people experience both extremes with equal intensity.”
I believe in my creativity, even if it has a tendency to disappoint me at times. I won’t say that my creativity is justification for my erratic recklessness; it probably isn’t. But I’ve come to understand the various colours of my being. There is extreme insight and there is complete emotional immaturity. I feel as invincible as the sun on certain days while on others I feel like a house crashed down on me. There are times I need people to surround me for the sake of my sanity, and there are times I would cut someone for merely speaking to me. I can be humble and I can be painstakingly proud. I’ve been told that the trick is to accept the spectrum of emotion you feel towards yourself. You aren’t an individual, you are a multitude. Is it just me, or does that sentence really get to you? It explains the vastness of the human mind in all but eight words. There is no concrete version of you, no matter how hard you try to push yourself into concretizing one.