Who am I without my story?

Who am I if not the parts of me that I identify myself with? The lonely child, the unconditionally loving angel, the one that does not belong, the cold disassociated judge, the therapist, the wise spiritual lady, the teenage ice queen, the helpless toddler, the angry resistance….

What if I put it all on the side, and look at it. Who is looking at these parts? What’s left? For a brief moment, I start laughing and crying all at once. My body is trembling with life.

But wait. What if I can’t leave it on the side? If so, why not? What in me wants to stay the hurt lonely child? What’s the reward?

I feel my ego exposed, in shock, there‘s nowhere to run. It is trying to hold on, but suddenly there’s nothing to hold on to.

What do you mean that’s not me? What if there is no part left to judge, to grudge, to hide, to irrationally fear, to brag, to explain, to disassociate?

Damn it. But… What then? Who am I without my story?

Silence falls. Something opens.

- Jheel, 15/10/2022