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I am a woman, though sometimes I don't feel very feminine - at all.
For many things, I still feel like a child.
I am a bit of a cynic, a bit of a pessimist but also an optimist in the making.
I am very creative and my favourite activities are mostly related with the arts. I love colour and music.
I am an only child, a bit of a loner, but I'd love to understand other people - though I'm pretty bad at communicating with them in most face-to-face situations.
I was born Portuguese, and though I feel Portuguese at times, other times I don't know what nationality you could call me. I sometimes say I feel international, because of going to an english school in Portugal all my life with kids from all backgrounds. I feel like I don't fit anywhere. But I like my country - most of the time.
I am my mother's daughter - she is a genius scientist and excels in everything she does - expectations of me are high - or they feel that way.
I am my father's daughter - he was a politician and lawyer, and a good one as far as I know, but he was terrible at personal relationships - this left me some marks.
I am intelligent and educated and a good listener.
I feel things quite intensely most of the time and am easily hurt.
I am very untidy, sometimes lazy and often feel like I have failed. I doubt myself all the time and sometimes feel like a bad person.
I am very caring, attentive and giving.
I have high expectations of others and can sometimes be unforgiving - this has softened with age.
Sometimes, because I have never been able to believe in God or any such figure, I feel like I am drifting through life aimlessly. Most of the time I'd say I'm an atheist but more recently I have thought I am an agnostic because I'm not adamant that there is no God and nothing after I die, I just think that's the most likely outcome. Since nothing else in life seems to make sense, why would that aspect of it suddenly make any?
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Whether we write or speak or do but look
We are ever unapparent. What we are
Cannot be transfused into word or book.
Our soul from us is infinitely far.
However much we give our thoughts the will
To be our soul and gesture it abroad,
Our hearts are incommunicable still.
In what we show ourselves we are ignored.
The abyss from soul to soul cannot be bridged
By any skill of thought or trick of seeming.
Unto our very selves we are abridged
When we would utter to our thought our being.
We are our dreams of ourselves, souls by gleams,
And each to each other dreams of others' dreams.
Fernando Pessoa, 1918
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