These Toxins and Those Defined

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What defines you?

Is it your clothes? Is it your job? Is it your children?

Maybe what defines you is your sport? Or maybe its your boyfriend? Does your body define you? I've thought about that one too much. It defines me. Some times.

Does your intelligence define you? Or does your bank account define you? Is it your lawn? Is it the size of your lawn? Is it the car? Does the size of your rim define you? Do the size of your tits define you?

When the moment strikes me I feel completely comfortable making conversation with anyone, and I mean any one. But most of the time I have a hard time 'conversing' with myself. Understanding who I am and feeling comfortable approaching what I see. I feel I can approach any one, most of the time. But the rest of the time I can hardly approach my self, and what defines me.

Do the arguments define you? Or does your smile define you? Does his big nose define him? Or how black she is, define her? So many things define us. But what really should?

I've thought about that a lot too. It once was that cigarettes defined her? And now the fragrance of fresh linen and soap defines her? And the lingering scent of Dad's cologne? That defines her for me at least. But they'd feel differently about what they'd say should truly define them.

A definition is, by definition, the meaning. The character of some thing, or something, or someone. I define me. Yet.

I'm defined by myself. And some times it just feels like I have so little control of who I am. And who, some times, I'd rather like to be. Is that future me? Or maybe its the me that will never come to be. The shape of things is always malleable, one hopes.

But this is less about me. And more about you. More about the you that I meet everyday, or don't meet and just knows that you exist somewhere beyond my visual scope doing whatever defines you. Looking like, whatever you 'dream' to be defined as. In their eyes. My eyes. We don't merely dress for ourselves, we think much about what the world will view us as. They are the ones looking after all. From my perspective I'm looking out, not constantly down at my clothes... but you... you're looking at me!

You can some times feel very torn trying to understand what defines you. And what you hope other people see. Some people have the gift of not caring what anyone thinks. Or what even they think about themselves. But one could argue, is that a gift, or a curse. The expectation of what people's response will be to you somehow governs our absolute being. That we live in a world of rules and governments dictates that. But we expect a lot from one another. And one of those expectations is to be accepted.

The accepted.

And what is acceptable. What falls within an expected, or reasonable, definition. The whole thing sounds like shit really.

And WHAT is my greatest addiction? Not reading. Not masturbating. Definitely not smoking pot. I am addicted to being worried about what defines me and feeling unsatisfied with the current definition.

One should always strive for better... and never let one thing define them too long...

Cataloged.

Categorized.

Labeled.

Titled.

Marked.

Tattooed.

Defined.