Delight Chilegide Olumati

We like to think that we are.
Are we?

We like to think we’ve been given a clean slate to write on.
Have we?

We like to think our lives are ours to live and
our paths are ours to create.
Are they?

We are mosaics of borrowed truths,
fractured fragments of untold stories,
shaped by whispers, glances, and shadows,
walking roads paved long before our first steps.

We like to think we are more than echoes.
But are we?

Perhaps our originality lies in how we weave these echoes,
crafting something that feels, at last, like it’s ours.

Who are we when they are not?

This journey to understanding self—
can it ever be fully grasped without a template?
Can we truly understand purpose without first seeking it?

Seeking.

The questions on our lips were not always ours.
Our lips didn’t create the words,
nor did they first dance to their rhythm.
The words existed,
and all we had to do
was gather them,
arrange them into motion,
and call it our own.

We are not.