I am me.

Ask me who I am, and I will answer that I am me. LAWSON BODY PASCAL? No, that’s not me, it’s just my name. It’s the midwife from the lagoon who named me that, without any authorization, by the way. Well, I could have been called Thomas or Jean; it’s just an indicator, like my arm or my leg. 20 years old? Oh No, that’s just a number. I could have been born in the 90s, and I would still be me. Who am I? I am me. I am the one who writes this, the one who speaks and you hear, the one who listens when you speak, the one who looks at this bodily envelope that serves as my interim with you from deep within, when I admire myself in the mirror. Who am I? I am me. I am: - The slightly deep voice that sings when I am alone in my room. - The narcissist, as Michelle and Milsa would say. - The mysterious universe that no one can hinder. - The overthinker who thinks and rethinks all these woes. In truth, no one knows me!