C'est Moi: The Outcast of the Hundred Acre Wood

I wonder sometimes if it is easier to describe myself as I am right now or in terms of who I have been. Then I wonder if there is really ever a difference.
I loved Eeyore as a child. The gloomy, melancholy figure perpetually on the outskirts of the Hundred Acre Wood in-group, Eeyore made me happy because he made me sad. I had a dozen stuffed variations of him, old-gen, new-gen, Christmas, cowboy, etc., hoping subconsciously that if I could love his plush form, maybe he wouldn’t be so sad in ‘real’ life. Because his story was real to me. Such stories are always real.
I know I never really abandoned my perspective on the reality of Eeyore’s plight, because I still have all my stuffed donkeys. I saw then, and I continue to see, too much of the pensive part of myself in his brooding character to outgrow him, since I could never outgrow that aspect of me. Eeyore is made up of the same stuff(ing) I am. I was never ashamed to relate quite personally to a blue-grey donkey with a defective tail who ate thistles and thanked Pooh for noticing him. Sometimes we don’t change. The Eeyore in me doesn’t change. And so, Eeyore and I will always have each other.