Where I grappled with my concept of identity

In the quiet corners of my mind, there exists a room draped in shadows where the echoes of identity reverberate. This room, like an antique mirror, reflects the fragments of a self in constant flux, a mosaic of moments and choices that have sculpted the contours of who I am today.

I recall a particular chapter in the narrative of my existence, a moment when the weight of societal expectations pressed upon my shoulders, urging me to conform to predefined roles and labels. It was an age of self-discovery, an era when the kaleidoscope of adolescence began to rearrange its patterns, and I found myself standing at the crossroads of conformity and authenticity.

The struggle began as a silent dialogue, a whispered inquiry into the nature of identity. Was it a static entity, fixed and immutable, or a river flowing through time, shaping itself with each passing moment? I grappled with the expectations thrust upon me, the scripted roles society handed out like masks at a masquerade. The roles whispered, "This is who you should be," but my soul, a rebellious poet, yearned for authenticity.

I was a canvas, blank and waiting for the strokes of self-definition. Poetry became my refuge, a medium through which I painted the colors of my soul. Each line was a rebellion, a proclamation that I refused to be confined within the rigid lines of societal norms. The pen, my ally, etched the verses of my journey, weaving together the threads of introspection and revelation.

Yet, identity is a complex tapestry, interwoven with threads of heritage, culture, and personal experiences. The conflict extended beyond the individual self, resonating in the chords of familial expectations and cultural roots. I grappled with the balance between honoring tradition and forging my path, a delicate dance between the old and the new.

In the dimly lit room of introspection, I confronted the masks I wore for acceptance, peeling them away one by one. It was a shedding of layers, a process of unveiling the authentic self beneath the veneer of societal roles. The mirror reflected not just my face but the essence of my being—a kaleidoscope of identities converging into a singular, authentic expression.

Identity, I realized, is not a fixed destination but a journey, a continuous exploration of the self. It evolves with each heartbeat, shaped by the hands of time and the chisel of experience. I emerged from that moment of grappling with a profound understanding: to be true to oneself is to dance to the rhythm of one's heartbeat, even if it echoes in defiance of the societal symphony.

Life goes on with the flaws of hatred and love where there were some mistakes, some regrets, and some memories I wanted for a lifetime. But life taught me, to grow with or without my wants. Life is a journey where there is no stoppage without death, and I don’t wish death, I never did. I want to live with my happiness, my sorrows. Suddenly I woke up in the morning realizing I lost myself, not sure where is my home where I used to stay caressed. The art of lost I might write someday with my vintage brown 90’s guitar.

The echoes in that room, once tumultuous, now reverberate with the harmony of self-acceptance. The struggle to define my identity has become a melodic narrative, a song of authenticity sung with the conviction of a poet who found liberation in embracing the ever-changing hues of the self. And as I stand on the threshold of tomorrow, I carry the wisdom of that introspective journey—a testament to the transformative power of self-discovery.