Two eyes, two nostrils, 10 fingers and thousands upon thousands of memories and experiences have lived through me. I grew and grew, surpassed everyone in my lineage, and became the latest spark of a branch on the family tree. A new root could straighten through me, if only I use my hands to guide its branches. But I am not ready to give out and become a name and a single picture in an archive of documents, to be forgotten like everyone else who came before me.
There must have been a reason for my ancestors to make me strong and tall, but not give me enough power to exhale.
Am I allowed to have a connection to all the people before me? Would it be strange to cry about species from hundreds of years ago when they are my family on a molecular level? Will my tears melt their ashes? Will it extinguish their flame? Will it make the memory of their existence meaningful once more, without a name written on their tombstone?
How do I uphold a legacy when I wasn’t born with a predisposed manual on how to see, feel and hear?
They had to remind me to breathe when I was born, and yet I have to find out how to continue breathing alone.
Am I loved because of me, or am I loved because its genetic. Would you love me if I wasn’t your ? If you didn’t know to call me your , would you sit next to me? Would you hold me? If I disappeared from all of our photos together, would you notice the emptiness where my back used to touch yours? Would you care if it wasn’t mandatory to write my name down under on all of our documents? If you hadn’t called my name out when you , would you recognize that feeling to look back at me?
Languages may evolve, names may change, but time remains constant.
Will time be able to forget my name and remember my face?
Disconnect the two halves, rid me of my primordial pool.