What a weird word: Identity.
In my past, I have seen it like Plato’s Forms,
suggesting a truest self–something so fully unique and completely me that informs the self I am in the world,
this form is outside,
disconnected from the day-to-day
and by virtue carries no layers of
middle school wounds or
instead it transcending my experiences and social location;
This form is the most foundational me.
It is a comfort to think, “oh that is not me-me–
that is a distortion caused by external circumstance.”
As if I want you to believe that my actions are just a fun house mirror, not
If I could get back to the me-me then…
But this sense of me can feel like there are so many layers between me and me and most importantly between me and you.
It leaves insulation between our intimacy
as you cannot reach my self and I likely cannot reach yours.
How can you see anything but the shadows cast on the cave walls of my sense of true self and operating self?
The only me that you can know is the me with story.
I have grown
my sense of me is not so disjointed within
me is the me before you
I grow in knowledge and wisdom
the shape of my identity have changed or been shed like skin cells,
once me but now dust.
I do not fear so much this sense of me as much,
this one has the freedom to morph and change
it is not static
its validity is not based in its ability to be unchanged.
I change, but I am known and I can know you.