who am i, really?

I really feel like there are a billion and one different versions of me. I'm constantly changing, adapting, and being influenced by the people and events surrounding me. And by the scenery. As I type, I am gazing out my bedroom window at snow drifting lightly over the forest of trees in my back yard. It's enchanting, and somehow makes me believe that life is good, that I'm okay. And this moment, watching the snow fall and enjoying the warmth of my blanket, has changed me, just like every other moment and every other experience. I'm no longer exactly the girl I was ten minutes ago. Even if you knew everything there ever was to know about me yesterday, you wouldn't know me so completely anymore. The summation of an infinity of near-nothings has shaped me into me. But only for this brief moment, for the moments never stop adding up.

But if this is true, why am I ashamed of who I used to be? Why am I still embarrased at the home videos of a skinny, white-haired girl jumping in front of the camera to attract attention? Enough moments have accumulated since then that I no longer see any sign of that girl in me. The new episodes have entered in, crowding the old and pushing them out of existence. Although I may no longer be the dorky seven-year-old, she is a part of my past, a the pages of my life neatly folded away and nearly forgotten. If I hadn't once been her, I would not now be me. Not completely.