Have Kids, Then We'll Talk

Perhaps you think you know who I am.
And perhaps you are not entirely wrong.

But then again, no one ever said you weren't.

Even so, what makes you decide that you do?

Did you hear me laugh?
Pardon, but it was at your expense. I could not help it. Your expression was absolutely priceless.

I understand. It is hard to understand me.

Maybe I am confusing you.

Let's start over.

There I go... Why can't I contain my smiles?

I don't usually laugh so much. People say I am the complete opposite of one who does so.
Sorry, I am not one for introductions.

Again? All right.

Perhaps you think you know who I am.

First of all, don't tell me you're my biggest fan. That would be the worst outcome that can possibly...

Oh, I am rambling. But there is well-defined logic behind my resentment for these so-called 'fans.' They assume that they are aware of everything that transpires in my life, of every single detail about me, of what I (could possibly) be thinking, of my very being. They do not realize that the only reason they even know of me is because they have admired my father beforehand, and see me as an extension of the man they called 'hero,' when even I myself know that I could never measure up to everything he is or has been, or will become, and...

Now I sigh. Once again, I am getting ahead of myself.

Back to the beginning?

Perhaps you think you know who I am.

I think it is safe to assume that I am correct when I say that you, initially, have judged me by my appearance?

What do you see?

You are startled by my eyes, no? I admit, they are quite peculiar, for they have no definite color, like iridescent butterfly wings. They can glimmer to a brilliant moss green to a placid gray, and sometimes meld into a most arresting warm brown. Those who wish to be exact and certain just say 'gold.'

The rest of my face is a combination of my mother's soft features and my father's sharp angles, and my skin's tendencies to seem pale take after both of them as well. My hair is dark and sweeps across my brow, the back of it touching the collar at my nape. I stand to a height that is almost at my brother's level, and my godsend gift, my hands, are long and slender, like my own frame.

Quite an elaborate picture I have painted for you, do you not agree? Was that not what you wanted? Must I play a song I composed too? Would that help?

It goes beyond what you see.

But then again, all the colors and descriptions and musical notes in the world can only go so far if you do not know what is in my mind. And what if I myself cannot even come to a conclusion that defines me? What else can I tell you but that there is too much to say? I have lead you down a way from which you cannot return. The futile journey we are attempting to embark must be stopped before you are coaxed further into its depths. You are then better off typing my name in an internet query box or staring at pictures of my parents, trying to piece together who I could be, who you think I should be.

Perhaps you think you know who I am.

I am Jared Arthur Way, and perhaps you should think twice.