Who am I? Am I me, or the culmination of everywhere I have been? Do I stand separate? Or am I the world momentarily coalescing in this form, and in this moment? Can stardust feel? Everything I am, all that I am made of, mirrors what is around me. Yet I am separate. Floating alone inside my own consciousness. What makes me, me?My birthplace? My family?
Parents shape much of what we are. They are the giants of our youth. The gods of our childhood, molding us out of the clay of the world. Are we them, our family? Do the similarities in our chemical makeup change a person’s importance in our lives? Or does the sum of our experiences with them make us, us?
As an old star burns away, every chemical that we know about snakes its way into the endless black. By the smallest of chances they land on this rock suspended in empty space that we call our home. As the center of the earth burns, and the planet hurtles through space, these chemicals begin to join, becoming larger and more complicated. The build themselves into everything that we can see, and touch. So, we sit looking up at the stars as the world burns somewhere underneath our feet, made of the same stuff as the stars we dream of reaching. Why do we not look around us with the same wonder we share for the stars? For that is all that we are. All of us. Dying stars passing through space.
They shape all that we are, those parents of the planets. Did we stare at our parents once, the same way we stare at the heavens? Never believing something could be so big, and so beautiful. They are our creators, and so they bring us into the world. Soon, we grow and flower, falling from the parental tree. A seed ready to drink in ideas, ideals, and doctrines. An individual.
We grow, and we age. Oh, do we age. Adolescence, beautiful and terrible adolescence. When emotions are broiling and churning within you. A storm ridden sea of self realizations, and confused and oft misunderstood sexuality. These are the lost children. Those who have started forgetting the quiet of childhood, for the noise of culture. Not yet adults, still brimming with that feeling of immortality only the youth seem to find. Never sure of who they are, or what they want. Each day brings about new feelings, and your body finally begins to settle into who you are becoming.
What happens then when we reach the age where distance begins to grow? As we begin to listen to different voices. Though the voices we heard in the womb still play a resonant chord along the heartstrings of our memories, we grow up. Some of us hoping we are nothing like our parents. Others knowing we will never be as good. What do our parents become as we grow old? The word “parents” meant everything to us when we were young. It meant love for some, and safety for others. For some it meant fear, or loss, and for a few it was an empty space left unfilled. For all it carries feelings which resonate to our cores. Whatever emotion it breeds. As we age parents transition. From a pillar upon which all of our decisions rests upon, to a term. A word used to describe the scattering of people who exist within the ever growing pool of people we care about. Our lives have become our own to shape. We have moved away from our guides, and our protectors. Left to forge ahead through the miasma of the modern day on our own.
We think therefor we are. An unshakeable truth of our existence. Other questions we may never really understand the answers to. What are we? What makes us individuals? How does thought exist? What shapes our consciousness, and our decisions? One thing we have always understood, no matter where our lives take us, our roots are strong. Our family are the first hands which begin to mold us into the people we become. We carry them with us for the rest of our lives, hoping we are better for it as we explore the vast expanse that is the brief, but beautiful, time of our lives.