“The Three Things I Said I was”

I told myself once that I was a writer, and yet, I have never actually finished writing a story of my own. Then, I told myself that I was a reader, but then, I could never find myself finishing a book filled with page-length paragraphs from beginning to end, even if I was motivated to do so. Last, I told myself that I was an artist, but then again, I could only manage to pick up a pencil and start scribbling on the paper for a short period of time before I gave up and left the sketch unfinished forever. Among the three things that I said I was, none of them were truly me—or at least, that is what I think of now. I could always try and start another story, another book to read, or another thing to draw, but one thing is for certain: none of them will be finished, just like the previous works. How will I be able to finish something when all I know is how to start? Starting may be the cause of creation, but it can never be the result. And yet, despite the interminability of works, I kept on starting, creating, and writing—over and over again. Because I know that even with my inchoate thoughts and actions, there is consistency. And perhaps, that is enough reasoning for me to continue to believe that I was still the three things I said I was.