They say words are an impression of the hand that pens them down and the eyes always see what they choose to. Rather contradictory, don't you think?

This space, a consolation award to the writer, a desperate attempt to appeal to you about who I think I am, before you make up your own mind anyway.

The hand writes what it thinks, but is it really who I am? The eyes read what they want, but is it really who I am? So who am I ? So who am I?

Can you tell?