Fluctuations

I construct a me; huge, made of every expectation that floats in my eggshell head. Cells woven together, bound by some invisible desire for impression,
build up and up and up,
And suddenly I am one hundred feet tall and staring down at the world. I am who I have created, this identity is me.

But I demolish me. I exfoliate the dirt in the skin of my body of ambition and take the rubble and turn it into me, again. But it is different now.

This isn't me, this is me, this isn't me.
What sort of malleable shell am I, that I am nothing and everything at once?

What is identity, what is personality?

A plastic, moulded and remoulded by altering ambition. There is no you, no me.
There is everything we are in one time, and everything we try to be.