28. doctors’ notes, and diaries

here you are, in all of your 28 years of age,
stripped of your identity.
you are you, but not the same.
so, how can you be who you are?

who are you?

…

I know who you are not.
you are not the illegible scribbles in doctors’ notes,
irrefutable, insurmountable,
sterile, factual, forever branded with an ill-fated life sentence,
ready to be passed on to someone else for lack of effort or understanding.
you are not the bones in the CT scan, nor the tendons on the MRI
waiting for the right pair of eyes to offer clarity or the way forward,
or for the right touch to put everything back in its place.
no, no, you are spilling everywhere and nothing can stitch you back up, I’m afraid.
all of this undoing of the self cannot be undone,
not even in another 28 years,
which we don’t have, anyway.

I do know where to look for you.
Bear in mind, though, I can tell you where to look,
but I cannot tell you what to see.
It’s a tough one, huh, this whole identity?

there are traces of you in every sundress you baptize in sea water,
in every spring and summer walk you go on looking for glimmers,
in every color hunt leading you through sunlit neighborhood streets,
in every low-hanging tree branch baptizing you in ephemerality and wisteria flower essence.
you can be found in the occasional seashell you stick to your ear
so as to hear the peaceful serenade of crashing waves;
in the sunset breeze whisking you away to faraway lands
where you can daydream to your heart’s content;
in the squeak of the pedal boat anchoring you in the now,
making you press the moments so tightly against your hippocampus, your fingertips turn white.

There is you in the hundreds of photographs you snap on a single outing
to ensure even the minute moments of magic are engraved in your memory;
I see you in all the humdrum you desperately cling onto,
hoping for one more minute of normalcy,
unperturbed by doctors’ visits or hospital gowns.
There is you in the alphanumeric keys shaping your spoken-word diaries,
granting you liberation, clemency, and not so moderate comfort.
I look around, and there you are,
within yourself.

I do not claim to know who you are,
for
that is too heavy of a question,
and I am weary of burdens and loads
tying me to the operating table,
to be dissected, found lacking and frowned upon.

I do know where you can be found
on the dreary days, but especially
on the dreamy days,
and, if 28 years of existence have taught me anything,
that is much more relevant information.
You are you, and 28.
And that’s that, for now.