Have you ever observed butterflies, just doing their thing, fluttering their wings?
Ever wanted to choose which one of them was prettier?
Ever wondered what they’d be like ,sans all the color?
Did they, as caterpillars intrigue you just as much?
Would they ,with broken wings, interest you just as much?
No. The beautiful wings gave them identity.
Ever placed paper on oil paint and marveled at the random designs?
Ever repaired a tattered shoe until you made it shine?
Ever noticed a solitary dragonfly in a pack of over a thousand?
Ever paid attention to a background dancer without reason?
The paint gave paper identity. Identity to its blank existence
Your effort gave the shoe identity. Identity to its ragged existence
A solitary dragonfly has none whatsoever, unless a wing’s extra, or none at all
Limelight gives the dancer its identity, identity with reason.
Would it be completely wrong then, to say
Identity is identity ,only as long as you hold on to it?
A baby’s born, and nurtured with “unconditional love”
It grows to become an obedient kid, loved and blessed by all
One fine day, it goes missing, much to everyone’s horror
The description they gave was of a well mannered kid, happy, active and cheerful.
Word gets out and a hunt begins, no yield whatsoever.
Ten years down, at the door he stands, every bit a tramp
Smoking a joint, unruly hair, stinking of alcohol and dirt
Their kid went missing, a boy had returned, not in the slightest their own
Unconditional love seemed a lost cause, not knowing how things had turned
They took him in, fed him well, but only because he was blood
The person in him was no more their own, he felt his soul burn
Went away without saying a word, this time no search ensued
No tears shed, no worries exchanged, none a fan of his identity, new.
He went, only to return, a man of thirty, having figured out his life
His effort to be someone they’d love, wouldn’t go unanswered
This time they took him in, arms wide open, tears of joy were shed
Made him promise he’d never walk away, their boy had finally returned
He went in search of his lost identity, that which appealed to all
Buried the one he carried, instead, that which appealed to him
Lived the rest of his life happy, amid love and respect
The only emotion missing, now, was that of content
At seventy he fell sick, his memory couldn’t keep up
The people faded from his mind, they who were his identity
They walked away from his self, “unconditional love” went down the drain
He lost his real identity for people who didn’t care after all….