Who are you?

Who are you?

I am Delenn.

Unacceptable answer.
I already know your name.
Who are you?

Delenn.

If you repeat an unacceptable answer, the penalty will be increased.
Who are you?

I—I’m the ambassador for Minbar.

Unacceptable.
That is only your title what other people call you when you choose to hide behind formalities.
Who are you?

I—I’m the daughter of—

Unacceptable.
What a sad thing you are.
Unable to answer even such a simple question without falling back on references and genealogies and what other people call you.
Have you nothing of your own? Nothing to stand on that is not provided, defined delineated, stamped, sanctioned numbered and approved by others? How can you be expected to fight for someone else when you haven’t the fairest idea who you are? Do you know how many have stood before me as you stand now? Proud, defiant, full of their own bloated self- importance.
Confident that they are chosen, special favored of God.
All of them have broken.
And better for everyone that they did.
Better to spare others the illusion of false hope.
You have the audacity to presume that you are on a mission from God.
Embarked upon a holy cause.
I don’t believe it.
And by the time you leave here neither will you.
It is even possible that you may die here.

What purpose will be served by killing me?

I would not kill you.
You can remove the manacles at any time.
But that would mean admitting your error.
Admitting you are not worthy enough or strong enough for the task ahead.
And pride will prevent you from doing that.
If you believe you are the chosen, then you must risk everything on the premise that the universe will not let you die.
Unless you’re wrong.
And here, now, together we will find out once and for all.

Who the F@¢§ Are You

Hamlet?

The band who has made the worst music ever to resonate in my ears. The Plague known as Rush, the cacophony known as New World Man.

I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there’s a pair of us—don’t tell!
They’d banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

—Emily Dickinson

Who Are You?

I’m the reason Jesus wept.

I am the mother of my children. Nothing else matters.

^ I am the mother of my children. Nothing else matters.
Here I thought some expected you to design rockets, build bridges, and operate on the brain all before picking your kid up from school—to simply be a MOM, how dare you waste your potential. ~~~

I can do all that too. But it doesn’t matter if it means I’m not mothering my children.

As I’ve said before, I am the secrets of my parents little dry wall world. I am a crayola sketch from my sisters sketchbook.
I am so much more than I could ever voice. I’m his biggest regret. The reason he doesn’t sleep at night.
Sometimes being me means being mean. I’ve lost friends over being me. But I’ve also made people fall in love with the look I send over my shoulder. I am every shade. More than just the essential colors.
I am a fireball of well worded insults, and “fuck you’s”. I am the ridged truth. But I am also scared. I don’t mean I get scared. I am scared.
The closest I’ve come to male attachment is my brother. I don’t believe in lost causes, but I believe that I am lost.
My existence has burned into someone, like stigmata. They can’t even find it in them to yell at me, because my name still gets stuck in their throat. I’ve been placed inside of every metaphor.
I am someone who has been taught to be touched, and feel nothing. I never learned to touch without scaring. I am someone who was born into love that always ends in fists.
I am love, and life and loneliness. I am not that black and white. I am so much more than I could ever voice.

I am a poet, and didn’t know it.

I am the New World Man

I AM SAM. I AM SAM. SAM I AM. THAT SAM-I-AM! THAT SAM-I-AM!

I am Jack’s Raging Bile Duct.
I Am Jack’s Cold Sweat.
I Am Jack’s Complete Lack of Surprise
I Am Jack’s Smirking Revenge.
I Am Jack’s Broken Heart.
I Am Jack’s Wasted Life.

Why, I’m Rudyard Kipling, of course.

If—
By Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

I am Sancho

Hey, Sancho, Sancho Panza!

I am a rock. I am an island.

I’m a joker, I’m a toker, I’m a midnight smoker.