I’ve come to terms with the fact that multiple versions of me exist, and that some of these, no longer exist. The boxes inside of my closet remind me of who I was at various points in time and I’ll keep those pieces of me, even if they are no longer alive. Because I am a lot more than I think I am.

I’m a fighter, coming home with bruises on my knuckles and cut up cheeks with a victorious smile and a suspension slip in my right hand. Only now, I fight for better reasons. I fight myself every day to stay alive.

I’m an artist covered in paint, wearing ratty old clothes and attempting to find a new space on my crowded wall for a beautiful piece. Now, I admire art in museums and speak of the color schemes.

I’m an althete, weighed down in metals and trophies of accomplishments from soccer tournaments and school sports team patches. Now, I kick the ball once a week if I’m lucky and instead of chasing a ball, I’m chasing my dreams.

I’m a reader with endless possibilities of escapes into deep literature and an evergrowing library stocked with literary classics. Now, dust collects on them and when I have time, I’ll brush it off.

I am collectively all of these things and none at all. Because these pieces, these small portions of who I was, got me to who I am today. I’ll never know if the now version of me will be the last, but I’ll keep on stacking the boxes up until I’m full.