Self-Portrait of an Introvert

I am M.J., whom no man or woman will ever fully know. Captured in front of Mont Blanc, the Bay Bridge, and the plains of Serengeti (in photos that keep me frozen in these moments); unchanged by places in which I stood and watched the world change—I remain M.J., whom no man or woman will ever fully know, not even through my writing. There is my hair, golden like that of the Little Prince, and my eyes, shining like gold despite being blue, but often they are veiled by my bangs, the color of sunlight, which I wear less as a crown and more as a mask. There is my face and there is my body, firmer in my legs than in my torso, strengthened by years of wandering through cities and towns, which may not have shaped my body so much as my mind, which time and again has turned adventures into stories of mountain ranges and oceans and plains, a collection of experiences and places to stimulate the brain and inspire my writing, but sometimes one simply wants to wander in one’s own mind…

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