I am Calvino’s man, made of invisible parts.

I am an expert.

As much as any man, I can find proof for all things to be true. I can create worlds of truth. Each of us can live in a world of my creation, and we possibly may. I have constructed the histories of nations to which I have never been. I know the origins of the roots of words I cannot define and have never successfully used in a sentence, or even in the use of a sentence fragment.

In my quarter-life, I have existed as a single person, but have created a minimum of two identities. Both of these identities have been published; both have subscribed to bi-monthly magazines or journals. Both of these identities have families and friends. Some of which overlap between identities. Both have fears and dreams, favorite bands and authors, flaws and pride, and even moral codes.

One is a young man learning to be healthy and ambitious, looking forward and planning the beginnings of a long career of hard work and social responsibility. One is an older boy energetic with a persistent desire to experience all things equally [pain and love, loss and euphoria] as a single person who may, sometimes in occasions of circumstance, cross paths with others who will gain great meaning in his life. The first is strong and reliable, shy yet prepared for righteousness, intent on good intentions. He longs to be only good for all others, and often feels pain in observance of the pain of those around him or not around him at all. He feels guilt for his wrong doings and the transgressions of innocence in which he played no part at all. The second lives only through what he can sense through his own eyes, mouth, ears, hands, nose and tongue. His world is small and meaningful–the cast of a flashlight on a midnight search for what it means to be alive. He is perpetually aware of his inevitable end, both as a reason for the timely celebrations of the burgeoning experience of his days and as the constant opportunity to make a necessary escape.

Right now, in the days of waning time and in the pressures of nearing ends, both of these identities are wrestling within me and I am stopped dead and alive in my tracks.