capable of becoming, is the only end of life.
Who am I really? I'm always asking myself questions like this. At times I feel I am many different people (not in a freaky Sybil kinda way) and I know I am still "me". And are we essentially the same people we were at, say, 8 years old? That 8-year-old is still in there somewhere, right? She's the one that colored endlessly and cartwheeled to her heart's delight. She was a little shy and she devoured books like they were candy. I catch glimpses of her every now and then.
But now, at 35, who am I? I know I have a core, but the edges of me are a little blurry. I'm searching right now, trying to get a clearer image of that 35-year-old. And here I thought I was done searching when I hit 31. I thought I had a pretty clear image of who I was. I was comfortable.
At 35 I'm feeling a little restless. It's almost the same feeling I had at 18. It's a feeling of wanting to do a greater good, to put myself out there in the thick of things, to give more, to learn more, to be what I think I'm capable of becoming. We are able to become more than what we are at any given moment.
So, another journey awaits. There are seemingly endless roads of self-discovery. The gas tank is full.