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of the past me. For, throughout the years since my childhood my physical image has changed as a chameleon's skin. The past only shows a constancy whereas the present me observes a type of transparency of anything, a complete scatter of colours too many to be considered a valid painting.
As a child, I was near prodigious. I led the "perfect" life. My hair always pleated, my attire ironed, my scholastic accomplishments outstanding, my highly diverse extracurricular life showing that of course I had a humanitarian, talented, and playful side in addition to my straight-laced work ethics, my overall demeanour nothing short of a shining example of righteousness every parents dreams their child to be. My goals? Full scholarship to Harvard University, win every competition possible, a ban of drug-users and teenage delinquents, world domination in which I would personally produce a world full of upstanding citizens dedicated to achievement and success; at which point completion of my goals would lead to the reward of a fairy-tale romance complete with dark-haired prince arriving upon . From being a class president on the way to becoming future valedictorian/dux , I encountered a reality completely opposite to mine. It began with my parent's divorce, which although nowadays is considered a normality, to the portrayed image of perfection is an irreparable stain. As I write now, with such crudity, I recall so many of the harsh judgements I made as a child on people from all types of backgrounds. If my fellow classmate had received a B instead of an A, I contributed it to laziness and poor character, because school was a place full of opportunities to be grasped. IQ tests, SAT scores, grades, although harsh, were not a standard of measurement that anyone could not achieve in. Writing, art, science, all had to be a certain way and follow a set of principles which qualified and constituted them as such otherwise any conspirator on the streets could call out a series of thoughts and be considered a legitimate scientist. Any schmos with a tongue could ramble out words and have them be labelled the ah so elitist term of poetry. A homeless vagabond nothing short of a human who was a complete waste of potential and talent. Was I lacking compassion? No. I loved my parents, my cats, and helped old ladies' carry their groceries. What I lacked was freedom. I could not see both sides of any argument, usually only my point of view. Whilst all that I have stated may still be thought

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