I am not a whole person, I am a jigsaw. A puzzle put together by so many. Authors, singers, thinkers, torturers, actors, liars, lovers. I am not one, but a collage made with bits and pieces of the bad and the best. I am not one man, nor am one woman. Nor one kid, nor one adult. No thought of mine is original, it’s borrowed by those who thought it before me, nor are the words I use, the feelings I have. All taken, founded; never created. Pull on a string and I unravel into a million shades, a tightly wound ball of multi-colour wool with tangled knots and fraying edges.
I am a jigsaw, with pieces missing. I am not one person. Nor do I pretend to be.