Contemplation Around the Truth of Being

What in me is not a story?
What is the purest form of me?
Do I have even a form?

If so, what is the form that constitutes me?
Has this form not changed my whole life?
What is more me: the way I am now?
Or the way I was ten years ago?
Or the way I will be in ten years?

What is the truth of me?
Is it in my skin, my sex, my age?
How can I even identify with something as
abstract and changing as age?

Do I allow my body to define me?
Do I give any importance to how others define me?
Do I need to wait for others to see me as I am
before I can be what I am?
Am I dependent on others to be what I truly am?

No matter the circumstances, wasn’t my conception
in itself absolutely free?
Was I not born in freedom?
When did that freedom end?
Did it end?
Where is it now?

​How is it now?
Am I not free from every story, every definition? 

A new morning. A new day. Never seen before. Never seen again.