I don't know what I want to write here or what I want this space to be anymore. But two years feels like a lifetime and I have lived and died here and then lived again. I started this blog because I needed to know what I looked like on the inside. I needed to build a separate perception of myself. When I was younger it was so easy to believe the stories that my parents told me. And I have believed all versions of them. Up the grapevine and through it and then heard the same story shifted through different languages and funneled at me from friends and classmates. Standing in front of the mirror, I could see their faces, see their mouths moving around the words that threw the shadows of my reflection. My eyes made rounds in the mirror, sweeping across their faces but I never looked into my own face until I started this blog. This has been a simultaneous process of hiding and revealing. What I hid during the day, I revealed at night to a blank Word document. I used to be someone was the first sentence I ever wrote here and it's one of the truest things I've ever said. I used to be someone, I used to be a lot of people. First, I was a walking archive and then an arsonist, searing the past, memories and people alike, into ashes and then I was just some girl sorting through the wreckage. I can write myself out of anything, even the past versions of myself. I wrote until the multiplicity shrank so tiny that the ropes loosened and fell away. I used to be the person who needed to build this place but I don't want to be that person anymore. The clock has rolled back to zero and I am free.