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  • Writer's pictureRawan

I must confess, my dear, that I am a poet and perhaps a little eccentric. It's just the way I am.

Updated: Jun 26, 2023

So tell me really, who you are?

The crippling hit you can’t outmaneuver; to which I respond "Which self my dreamer?";

is it the one I grow-up with, the one assigned to me, or perhaps the one you see and comprehend? or maybe just maybe it is the innermost self that only we can truly know.

For I can not find the illustration, the elucidation, and the vocable with reference to a form rather than meaning.

I often think of identity as an elastic concept, you can stretch and compress as we live through our narrative; influenced by all what we experience and what we actively take part of. I challenged myself to address this question in personal quest, and in the process of doing so I'll refer to my self as a third person, it can help to create a more objective and detached perspective.

The "Sun Child"

She was bright and light, but she often experienced a sense of fear; of the darkness, of locked doors and being alone. A predominantly sensation of agitation, shyness associated with urinary incontinence; she loved playing outdoor, she had a wild imagination, she was creative and enjoyed creating crafts and paintings.

She loved science, brave and had an adventurous soul and wanted to swallow the world whole.

She cried heavily on her first day of school, she cuts her own hair, she hate the color green and went on phase not to eat anything green for a while, she had a blue teddy-bear named "Pop"; Her favourite show was Mister Rogers' Neighborhood.. she loved it; and she sang along the into; She held a deep rooted innocence but also a deep understanding of how scary the world is. I remember you in the sixth grade, having to grow your hair taller, having to trim the edges of your personality all with a new haircut.

I remember the nightmares, the midnight runs to your mother's room, hiding so the monsters won't find you. I remember the sense of shame with the daily reminder you've lost control at some point while you were dreaming and wetted your bed. I remember how you hated your feminine look and wanted to look like a boy, well she was unyielding like one anyway.

She craved more time from her father, more acceptance from her mom, she prayed for the sun to never go away, so the darkness dose not appear and so is the monsters.

I'm still pretty much that child.


The body

The temple

The poem

The physical element of who we are, our own body.. a personal exhibit.. a skin written memoir, a record of our countless triumphs and defeats.. the the bike falls and the engraved wounds as an evidance that we existed to the point of tears.

The hair, a filamentous biomaterial consisting mainly of proteins holds your genetic legacy that tells the story of your grandmother's braids; of a mother and daughter bond. A historical expression of beauty and status, of ecstasy and pain.

everything we are consist of; is touched by our ancestors; a biological evidance of how they survived to pass their gens to tell their story, to live somehow through someone else.. and though i never knew them, i still carry them within me.. and they might still have an influence of how we view the world, what food we love, how much hair we have left when we are old, and ultimately whom we choose to be in this vast world.

We are not a single define-able "I" and though we have a choice of who we become, we've a set of things already defined for us.. through our childhood, genetics, experiences and our nurturing.

I define myself as a child with historical influence.

Well, who you are, really?

I know my hope for the world, as clear as the sky but I withdraw into the void.

I know my fears, but I fail to count them.

I know my love is infinite, knows no limit of any kind.

I know I can't utter or vocalize my pain.

I know I fail at forming a meaningful social connection, I make strangers out of people.

I know I struggle to forgive.

I fear the dark and I rarely feel safe.

I am a poet and perhaps a little eccentric, my thoughts are scattered, and so am I.

I know whom I aspire not to be, I know my sadness is core part of who I am.. its sometime I accept and I seek no joy to replace it.. just a genuine acceptance of the idea of who I am and no full sentence, no phrase, no bio, no paragraph, no book can fully capture that essence.

Just, a poet and perhaps not quite right in the head.


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