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Who Am I?

Essay by   •  November 24, 2012  •  Essay  •  1,248 Words (5 Pages)  •  1,285 Views

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Who am I?

This is indeed a rather extensive and onerous thing to ask an individual. I feel as if placed on the spot; suddenly the most fundamental question of my existence seems impossible to answer simply due to its broad and infinite nature. So much can be said about my character, that I sincerely have no idea where to begin. The one thing I can say with the wholeness of my heart is that I don't particularly know who I am yet; I can only attempt to elaborate on what I am like. What in this world evokes me, what I enjoy doing, what I've gone through, what my beliefs are and what I favor/disfavor amongst a multitude of divergent elements are what truly define me. But even these elements do not remain static. They can change and most probably will change ; so I am being asked this question and ask myself the same question with a great deal of wonder and oddly enough - fear. Who am I, really? But I can state the undeniable facts for now just as an introduction to what can turn out into becoming a 1000 page novel. My name is Eva Aghekyan. I am a mature 17 year old nihilistic atheist and live in the dire and dreary suburbs of Maple, Ontario. I am 5 feet 7 inches, have large brown eyes and medium length black wavy hair. I was born in Armenia and live with my two parents whom I love unconditionally. My life had always been rather difficult; and I have struggled to fit in with people ever since I was put in Kindergarten. I suffer from a mental illness quite possibly induced by my inclination towards deep disconsolate thought and the severity of a crippling low self-esteem.

I will start off by saying that I am a consistently developing person and have evolved a tremendous amount. Of course I was the same in terms of aesthetics, but unambiguously different in a purely psychological sense. Despite the positive changes that have occurred within me, inadequacy and a great deal of idiosyncrasies have been present in my life and literally shun my potential of being something other than the misanthropic cynical disaster than I am today. I am tragically flawed and plagued with a demoralizing mental impotence that weakens me to an unimaginable extent, albeit it is something that does not define who I am as a person whatsoever, it is only something I happen to be afflicted with. I am the epitome of melancholia and of disarray, and am quite content with being so as I feel significantly more creative with these temperaments for reasons I am not exactly sure of. I prefer observing people rather than speaking to them. To me, socializing is exhausting and requires a great deal of energy that I do not have� it's like having to perform and I don't have the freedom to be myself and do not feel comfortable around others. I primarily enjoy being alone and dread the thought of putting on a fake smile and pretending all is well when it isn't. I've noticed that this is how everyone is expected to act; content. Happiness is normal. Anything deviant from average conduct and thought is almost immediately labelled as weird, crazy and freakish; merely because the latter does not understand and takes no time to consider the circumstances of the individual. I have miniscule tolerance for ignorant, selfish and cruelly judgemental people who speak on plain terms. The majority of our human race sees life in a very black and white context. All good, or all bad. I can only imagine how awful it must feel to have such a vapid worldly perspective. I am infatuated with psychology and aspire to become a psychologist in the future. It is a great interest of mine to discover and truly understand why humans do the things they do and why the mind works the way it does.

Where there is imagination and ability to feel and articulate that imagination, no matter how it is expressed, there is art. Writing is one of the many endearing forms of art. Literature speaks the grizzly truth of the human condition and has the power to evoke emotional response from the reader so long as it is written well and introspectively. My favourite novelists include; Fyodor Dostoyevsky,

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