Can you help me find someone?

Can you help me find someone?
Who am I? I really don’t know, do you—and if so tell me, please? Everyone is plagued with this question and spend their whole life galloping behind the answer—that is always ahead, and when one seems to be close on its trail—it will change directions faster than a rat in a maze or a bolt of lightning. Many people are afraid to show their true selves so they put on a show or a veil over them selves—fearing society will tear their true self if it even senses a whiff. When they believe the circumstances are safe to come out of their fortress, of alternative personalities that have been calculated to be the most “fit-in-able” in social situations, they will be chased back inside with a random rude comment or stare—or maybe it is all just paranoia that drives the person in all of us to flee to the fortress and lie in the fetal position hoping the attackers are unable to find the delicate inner self.
“I enjoy working hard and following instructions from authority figures without giving gruff or any sense of skepticism.” Oh would society not love for me to proclaim myself in such a manner? But sadly this would be a blatant lie. I have a mind set of my own and will not become another robot to be controlled by an inferior leader—although I am not objectionable to being bestowed by a knowledgeable and fair leader. I would rather run naked through the streets than be trapped in an upper-class society of impossible rules and etiquette—rules that if examined closely appear to be a cage ready to ensnare a victim seeking to be “elite”, selfish conquest of being better than everyone because of “class” or money. True class comes from a good heart—“there is no title more enviable than that of an honest man” said by Abraham Lincoln. Too bad I will never be envied to that degree—or at least for now.
I enjoy expressing my self in blots of ink people call words. It gives me freedom—even though some would criticize my freedom; but still I coast along in my imagination along ocean cliff sides and beautiful fields and gardens—free and unaffected from outside negativity. Actually, outside negativity only makes my imagination seem even more enticing, more of a haven, and even more colorful compared to this drab and cold reality. I enjoy literature that actually has some characteristics that prove it was actually written by a person—someone with a soul that has emanated his thoughts onto the paper and gave life to the ink. Manipulate it to tell an interesting story or just ramble on; or reflect their innermost feelings that they dare not say out loud, but take comfort in the privacy of writing it down without murmuring a single word of it to another, or maybe even themselves—then maybe it may be safe to wander from the fortress, but only temporarily! If I were to be my true self, say every word I thought about aloud, I would have already been slapped to a pulp by beautiful girls, or “maybe not” said I optimistically to myself, and beaten to death by nitwit brutes. So thus my hiding in the fortress is only understandable—I do allow friends into my fortress though, or maybe only partially.
My life experiences shape me. As each wave gets pulled back to the sea a new imprint is left on the sand and changes with the next; as does the “me” with everyday, every experience, and every life lesson—life is a lesson. The self you are reading about is only temporary and a new self will replace the old to accommodate with the drastic changes of everyday life. Enjoy this “me” before it flutters away—before society mutilates it to the point it will be incapable of wandering from the fortress, and also unwilling.