I am a hundred different people. No more than that. I'm an infinite number of people and every day I multiply that number by every two eyes I reach, each two ears that recognize something in my voice, some commonality or just the sound of a life, and finally by the unknown number of minutes I spend dancing through the curtains of thought and emotion that someone knows to be their experience of me. But do any of those infinite me-s exist? Are any of them the definitive me? We priviledged our own perceptions because it is supposedly constant and closest to us, loudest in our heads, but is that even an accurate attribution? Maybe I think too highly of humanity, maybe I priviledged us more than I should. But I have to wonder if there is more to me than my intentions. That unknowable part of me, that is a secret usually even to myself.

It's a stressing time of year, and its during these times when I think about the people in my life, and what they mean to me, and what I mean to them, and I wonder a lot. As much as i think I do a good job of keeping in touch with people and looking after people I realize how much goes undone and how many go neglected. There is a certain question I've answered many times in many different variations of the same incorrect answer. But the real answer is that I like things the way they are, life is a balancing act, some sides give while others take but if your good, it manages to balance out in a way that makes you happy.