Who am I?
A question that has plagued for as I can recollect.
I'm African. I'm Indigenous. I'm European.
But who am I really?
In my youth I would yearn for you, this knowledge of self.
For how could I know anything before I knew myself?
I dived deep into different devices of discover, dying to differentiate myself from the desolate drone that I detected within myself.
For a while, art was my vacation. I weaved new worlds in tapestries of paint, graphite and clay.
But how long could I stay?
How long before I was pulled away, back to the real world, where I was not some hero. Some king. Some god.
Eventually I am jolted awake, to the facade of this faulty world.
But in art was my escape. A journey both within and transcending my mind, body and soul.
An exploration of creation through my imagination, hoping to end with jubilation,
Eager with anticipation to find the relation between these diffrent parts of me.
In my eyes, I was a puzzle, seemingly impossible to put together.
Too many pieces, spread all across a vast floor.
Or better yet, ancient Ausar, cut in pieces and scattered across the world,
Conscous, but unwhole.
I kept seeking, turning to different remedies.
Art, ancestry. Music, marijuana.
And within each thing, I'd reveal something within myself.
And as the years passed, teetering on the edge of the oblivion that is the clashing Chaos of depression and diffidence.
Teetering on that ledge, peering into the frightening, endlessly blank expanse of white,
I realized, I am that puzzle.
But in this I found not despare, despite such apparent defeat.
I mean, how could I possibly put together these countless pieces?
I had peered at this pitiful puzzle,
Thinking there was no hope for me,
Yet once I take a step back,
I see that the puzzle has been coming togther this whole time,
And one day,
I would once more be whole,
And come together in a new life,