Identity. We don’t choose this life. We don’t choose the skin, hair, eyes, features of our face. Shape of our body. Our height. We come here fully packaged and tasked with the same job of every single human that lands here. Come to know yourself….look at the reflection in the mirror and know you. Spend the time finding your interests. Your people. And hopefully, if you are really lucky, thrive. Grow into your youest you. Find passion…work and rework and rework some more. Become.
But what happens when the you you got, ain’t the you they want? When your parents look down at the the precious baby and say, I was hoping for ______. When the teacher says, it would help if you settled a bit. Stayed quiet more. Gave the “right answers?”
See the problem is, this world had a right answer in mind before you were even expected. An answer that looks, sounds, speaks, acts….IS right. And it’s not shy about telling you, you ain’t it. It tells you in the images you see in movies, tv and magazines. It tells you in the stories you hear from your teachers. You close your eyes and imagine the world….painted as the right you can never be.
And when you come to realize this, you begin to shrink. To be less and less of the you you really are to fit. To be closer to right or at least less wrong. See, that’s the thing you finally get. You are wrong and no one ever had to say a formal word for you to know it. Once you know, you begin to go inward….searching for the ways to hide…or resist.
And you see….the problem here again is you twist and turn so much…molded by the silent and the vocalized rights and wrongs of this strange world…that you miss your mission. You dropped the mirror through the denial and it shatters…tiny bits of broken glass reflect light and cubist angles and images…a monstrosity. No longer human. No room to thrive in the one dimensional frame you are trapped in.
Others? They walk by and view…critic, despise, reject the ugly, tormented image they helped to create. But you see, they, too, have missed the mission. They too have faced the tortured process squeeze all uniqueness…all individuality…right out of their core. They are left…the bitter Apple, seeing through the small slits where seeds live.
So here we are. These things. These lost identities. Lifeless objects. Powerless. Totally oblivious to what we have become and even less aware of what we could have been.