Who Am I?

Oddly enough, I've never really ever felt my age. At 14 I felt that time was moving too quickly, at 18 I never once felt 18, and now at 23 I am finding it hard to put all of the little parts of me together. My exterior apparently screams underage, my logic seemingly that of a 40 year old woman, and my emotional intelligence is still waiting for the jury to return the verdict on that one. When I put all of these pieces together I feel like such a mismatched freckle on the nose of my life's complexion.
I could just put it down as a unique mark of my own individuality, if I didn't feel that I needed to rotate the various pieces of me to suit the personality of whoever faces me at that particular moment.
Just when I think I can safely pack myself into a box labelled with some form of stereotype, the field to the left of my brain throws something into the game to prove me wrong. The thirty-something feminist in me is looking at real estate and applying for a mortgage, discussing strata fees and square metres whilst hanging out by the lockers at work. The single twenty-something year old will sit in a Kings Cross club with old school friends drinking cocktails poured from a teapot whilst wearing Chanel. The various characters in me can be clearly contradicted at a swift glance through my wardrobe; dresses with full tulle skirts, Spanish leather pumps, stockings and cardigans, blue sequined Converse sneakers and seasonal Sportsgirl jackets - and that's all before you get to the designer labels. Many of these items contradict one another, yet surprisingly they all play an integral part of finishing one of my soul-defining outfits. But even as I decode each one, it somehow manages to confuse me of the make up of my identity even further. I wonder if it will ever somehow make sense to me, and if not perhaps someone else who can rearrange the 'pick the face' enough for me to recognise enough of my own features to finally see it as an acceptable 'me'.