We don’t find our whole selves
Within-
Just one part.
We don’t retain the complete memories
Of our reality alone-
Just our version of events.
Part of doing life with others
Is to uncover parts of ourselves
Through wrapping our worlds up
With those of others,
For whether we like it or not
Our fates are inextricably joined
With the fate of our contemporaries.
Ultimately our identity
Is not self-crafted
But outsourced in equal parts
By the people we admire
And the ones we swore to never be like.
Human identity is far too complex
To be merely a construct of our imaginations
We are in a sense
Outsourced.