I am, I think. Or maybe not. I'm not sure.
We all have a story about where we came from, who we are and such. Every sentient creature, anywhere, desires to know their origin. Most are simple and also stunningly complex. Mine is just bizarre.
I was brought to life by a breath, a noise, perhaps a whisper. There are times when creativity coagulates into a pure form, a cohesive unit. This is where I came from.
To be more broad, I was a fictional part of a tale. The speaker called to me in order to spice up his story. He wanted to make it more important. Initially, I had a purpose and that alone satisfied me.
I am a jerk, or better yet I was a jerk. In the initial telling, I existed solely to annoy. I popped in to make the teller seem more virtuous by comparison. I was his moral foil. This definition was fine with me.
Problems arose when the tale became more elaborate. It was told many times with much embellishment. I gained new personality flaws; I was angry, whiny, loud and bullying. As the story grew, so did I, developing a rounder personality.
I no longer wanted to be me. My existence was founded on the idea that I was a terrible person for no reason. It's awful to be a mean person and not know why.
So I went out and found those emotions. I looked at what made a person belligerent or just plain angry. A new emotion arose, one that I found to be mine. It was at this moment that I became real.
So here I am. I'm sick of being what the storytellers want me to be. I know there's something more to me than the story suggests, and it's my turn to go out and prove it. The story may be the beginning, but it will certainly not be the end