Daring as ever, the duo ran toward the shouts of their colleagues.
This firefight was intense, but nothing out of the ordinary. Bullets rained and fires raged. That’s why they were here, to calm the ravaging destruction.
Locking eyes, the first one pointed to the next line of cover and smiled. Without hesitation, they calmly took a synchronous breath and began their assault on the enemy. Except this time, things would be different.
The other one had been hit dead in the chest. They both managed to make it to cover, but the damage had been done.
Standing there soaked in blood, I realized: it was you and me.
Who are “you,” who am “I” and what defines “us?”
That doesn’t matter, because we don’t matter. As inconsequential blips on the timeline that is human existence, “we” aren’t anything.
Or, rather, it’s that all of our thoughts, feelings and actions are important and make a difference. Which is more crushing?
Apparently, society chose the latter. Now we spend hours every day, consciously or not, thinking about who we are, what we like, how others perceive us and how we should react and respond to their perceptions. So much so that we relive situations in our heads, thinking of a wittier comment, a better answer or trying to figure out why those people were staring.
Just me? Okay.
That’s the thing about identities, though, it is just us.
If life were a play, it would contain many acts. Each act establishes different points that influence the greater plot of the show. They each tell a story of their own, but together these pieces form a larger puzzle.
This is how identities are built. No one person or event has complete control over the plot of you, and you can always start a new act.
That’s easier said than done, of course, because change is a process that can take years.
One day you’re just a girl driving home with your mom trying to explain the confusing feelings building up inside and, in the blink of an eye, it’s four years later. You’re now “them” and when you look in the mirror, you almost can’t recognize who you used to be.
Sure, a haircut changes the way you look, but you are the same. You watch the same shows, you have the same cat and you are still addicted to lemonade, but there are acts of your identity that have changed the play so drastically that even opening your mouth to speak generates so much anxiety.
Just me? Okay.
I hope that, in the end, the two compatriots can get through their crisis, defeat the chaos surrounding them, and live the peaceful, fulfilled life we all deserve.
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