If I should not be me,
Who should I be striving to be?
Can I even separate my identity
From the medium of ideas I swim in?
Like the Buddhist who asks:
Am I a just bit of froth
Or am I the sea?
Is my belief that I have my own hopes and dreams
Just an acceptance of the projections I receive
From screens large and small
In images and print?
I believe time has made me wise.
I tell myself I am enlightened.
I have sloughed off the blinders,
The reins, the saddle on my back,
That used to allow the world to ride me,
Placidly accepting its guidance
Along well-trodden paths.
But as I wander alone in the high grass,
Has my mindset really changed?
Have I taken control and set my own course?
Or does habit keep me close to the road?
Maybe all true pioneers just got lost.
Maybe it is impossible to forge your future.
Maybe self-will is just another bit of hubris
And fame or anonymity is moot.
So who am I, Suzanne?
Maybe it doesn't matter.