I once asked my father, “How do you live a world when you don't know who you are?” I think people over complicate the question; all it is asking what are my interest. And tho I tell myself that the question is not complex, when I ask myself my brain becomes a scattered mess. It seems as if I can only remember the bad things, yet I don't know how they have shaped me today. When the devil knocks on my door and leaves bad memories, the ones I wish I could delete, I'll pray that I will be reminded of good days. I may forever be a different breed who likes astronomy, old music, and flor-de-lys, but those bad memories must have done something right, for I am a good person, and I sleep at night. There is a lot of definitions of me, but the only one I can think of is who your suposed to be. I may know who I am, and I may not, but it will never make a difference because I will never change. Even when all the ideas of 'me' are hurled, I will remember the night my father told me, “You don't have to know who you are to find a place in this world.”