The world has its ink and we are a page, and every stroke creates in us the script lines of our selves, a biography constructed by the words and actions of others: I am loved. I am unloved. I am capable. I’m a quitter. I am smart. I am dumb. I am beautiful. I am nothing… I am, I am, I am, I am. I am the result of a thousand words, ten thousand messages, twenty thousand looks, telling me who I am.
But who am I really?
Somewhere underneath, deep within the sinews of my heart, is there a me that wasn’t formed by the words and actions of others? And what if not all their words were true all along? Am I then a living lie? How do I know who I am, if all I have to go on are the cracked-mirror words of other fractured human beings reflecting broken images back to me of my self?
This broken world has a story for me to live in. My scarred history has a story for me to live out. But what is the story that I was born to live?
Human words can be a frail foundation on which to build a life. But what is the alternative? Alternative words outside of humans naming our humanity?