21/05/2026
Identity is a funny thing; it may push us towards hard work and achievements, but it also brings conflicts. Even funnier, things we were ready to burn the bridges over might become completely insignificant.
How much of what we think is "us" is just circumstances? The moment they change, our identity is in crisis. Losing or gaining a relationship, position, or money changes us.
The simple passage of time strips us of so many things. A big part of wisdom is how we handle impermanence.
Here is an excerpt of a beautiful poem on the topic. I encourage you to google and read it all. Let me know in the comments what you think.
Teenager
By Wisława Szymborska
Me—a teenager?
If she suddenly stood, here, now, before me,
would I need to treat her as near and dear,
although she's strange to me, and distant?
Shed a tear, kiss her brow
for the simple reason
that we share a birthdate?
So many dissimilarities between us
that only the bones are likely still the same,
the cranial vault, the eye sockets.
Since her eyes seem a little larger,
her eyelashes are longer, she's taller,
and the whole body is tightly sheathed
in smooth, unblemished skin.
Relatives and friends still link us, it is true,
but in her world nearly all are living,
while in mine almost no one survives
from that shared circle.
We differ so profoundly,
talk and think about completely different things.
She knows next to nothing—
but with a doggedness deserving better causes.
I know much more—
but not for sure.
