Last semester I had a professor who asked us to fill out this sheet about ourselves, and everyone wrote a few sentences or paragraphs in response to the last question. Who are you? I said I haven’t gotten it all figured out yet. Certainly I have a picture of myself, and to an extent I know who I am and am not- but the question is so final and all encompassing. It almost feels like a trap to answer it, as though it has to remain static once I figure out whatever that is. I am not sure who I am, despite how headstrong, opinionated and stubborn I can be. I am a procrastinator, I often speak without thinking, I am headstrong, I am sometimes quick-tempered, I love the color pink and lace and bows, I like wearing jeans and t-shirts but I am not a fan of sneakers. I like flats and wearing my hair down or in a messy bun when it’s hot, I love ice cream more than anything in the world, I love painting my nails, I dance around my room to songs I love, I wish I had more time to read, I don’t watch much television but I love watching films. Those are all things about me but surely it’s not really who I am, though I feel like those sorts of answers are expected. I’m not what I like or don’t like. I’m not a certain person because of these material and frivolous things but they are the easiest ways to paint a picture of myself and I use that as a crutch occasionally- but you did ask what I liked (which I just noticed right now, so there’s that). Who are you, S? I wonder if you do move me. I’m moved by words and celluloid and film. Films often make me cry, in stark contrast to how rarely I cry otherwise. I cry when I’m frustrated and angry and I feel helpless, not when I’m sad. I look up to timelessness, and I envy it. I look up to people who go out and do things, to those who make and create change, to those who can take a sentence and make it something profound. I could go on but this is a lengthy answer as it is. Thanks for asking a question.