Identity is the greatest mystery of life. We are constantly seeking for others to define themselves to us because we want to know if we’re the only one in the universe who cannot define ourself. It is this search that leads us to do both the mundane and extraordinary. People search the ends of the earth looking for who they are, their purpose, the meaning of life itself. And some find it, halfway across the world, thousands of mlies away from home, and others never have to leave their bedroom. So the question becomes: Do we have to travel to truly know ourselves? Or is it a charade we use to avoid the question? Can we ever really know our own identity, or that of another? Is my identity tangible enough to grasp onto?
I don’t know what to expect in Ireland. I don’t know who to expect. Probably the same kind of people I see here: individuals full of light and dark, good and evil. For it is the combination of the two that makes us human. The duality that binds us. Culture molds us, and different cultures have different molds; but no matter the shape, we’re all made of the same stuff.
I don’t pretend to be an expert on “identity,” nor should I be. What I do know is that I am only just now discovering who I am, in abstract images rather than words, and I am sure I am not alone in my search. I am not going abroad to find myself, but if I happen to find myself along the way, fantastic.