The Adoration of Jenna Fox

But I am more than a name. More than they tell me. More than the facts and statistics they fill me with.


I lift the corner of my mouth.
Then the other: a smile. Because I know I am supposed to.


Where did those words go, those words that were once in my
head?


Eyes don't breathe. I know that much.
But hers look breathless.


Are the details of our lives who we are, or is it owning those details that
makes the difference?


Maybe that is all any life is composed of, trivia that eventually adds up to a person, and maybe I just don't have enough of it yet to be a whole one.


The dictionary says my identity should be all about being separate or distinct, and yet it feels like it is so wrapped up in others.


I'm afraid that for the rest of my two or two hundred years I will still have all these questions and I will never fit in.