Of all things that I could write, describe and shine light at unlit places, there’s one thing that I could not be able to write about. That is myself.

The inability to describe who I am in words has startled me greatly. Is it because I am indefinable? Do I have no characteristics that are uniquely my own? Or is it because I know that I’m nothing much to be written about, that I subconsciously acknowledge my unattractiveness, and thereby subconsciously refusing to write about myself? Or maybe it’s simpler than that; I don’t know how to describe myself.

It’s not uncommon that we are not completely aware of ourselves. We habitually do things without thinking about. Maybe if someone could observe me, she could write great things about me. I could be under appreciating my identity because I’m not aware of my great self. But until I recognize that, I’m still nobody.

There is no denying; I’m definitely materialistic. I define my success with my possessions. I blame it on having to grow up in a low-income bracket family, where money is the topic of concern everyday and night. Having more money meant buying a replacement for a broken dishwasher. Over the years, I’ve been tune to value the materials I own and what I might own in the future. After graduating high school, I’ve taken the road of higher education. I am now poorer than ever. $5000 of tuition fee for each three-month term has left me like a broken vase. I have little material goods to value. As a materialistic, I’m an utter failure. Of course, I don’t want people I know to know about this. So I can’t write about myself as a failure and hope somebody is going to find me attractive.

The reason why I can’t write about myself is because I’m not happy about myself. If there were something I can do to change everything and make all my unhappiness disappear, I would do it. The beginning of my quest for finding the things that I must do to become happy opens up vast wildlands to uncover.