#identitysearch

[versegold]

Festival of Self

My mind wanted to find you among the people at the festival— all standing in groups, dancing, having fun. And I dissolve into music, forgetting everything for 45 minutes.

Wake up. Another day. Whether you are there. Whether you are not. Wake up. Another day.

Looking in the mirror— laugh, smile, being someone. Whether you are there. Whether you are not, I am.

[almostadulting]

Discovering Your Identity

Introduction

Late teenage years often serve as a period of self-exploration. It is during this phase that individuals begin to question who they truly are beyond societal labels and expectations. The process of discovering one’s identity becomes an essential aspect of personal growth.

Influence of Society

Family expectations, peer opinions, and societal norms often influence how individuals perceive themselves. Many teenagers feel the need to conform in order to be accepted, which may lead them to suppress their authentic interests and beliefs.

Exploring Personal Interests

As individuals grow, they start exploring different hobbies, career paths, and perspectives. Trying new activities and engaging in unfamiliar experiences helps them understand their strengths and preferences.

Facing Self-Doubt

The journey towards self-discovery is not always straightforward. Confusion and self-doubt are common during this phase, as individuals attempt to balance external expectations with personal aspirations.

Embracing Authenticity

Understanding oneself involves accepting imperfections and acknowledging unique qualities. Embracing authenticity allows individuals to make decisions that align with their true values.

Conclusion

Discovering one’s identity is a gradual process that evolves over time. Late teenage years provide an opportunity to experiment, learn, and grow into a more confident and self-aware individual.

[inkandembers]

🪩 Сказки отражения, Mirror Tales

en ⬇️

Сказка про Травяного Зайца и Весну, которая не подводит

Когда в четвёртый раз за год зима решила, что ей опять есть что сказать, всё лесное сообщество дружно заныкалось. Кто в нору, кто в старую бочку, кто под подушку. А Травяной Заяц сидел в своём мятном домике из сушёных трав и жевал время. Он не плакал — заяцы вообще редко плачут. Но внутри него что-то грызло. Не то чтобы больно… Просто обидно. Как если бы чай остыл, пока ты рассказывал кому-то самое важное. А они — не слушали. — Всё пропало, а я остался, — пробормотал он себе под усы. Из стены дома, прямо из вязанки полыни, вынырнула Весна. Она всегда так делает: появляется не по расписанию, а когда надо. Пахла она тёплой землёй, дождём и первыми шагами босиком. Волосы — как распустившийся одуванчик, голос — как смех, от которого щекотно в груди. — Ну вот и ты, — сказала Весна и присела рядом, не заботясь, что промочит подол. — Я думал, ты придёшь только по календарю, — буркнул Заяц. — Я не календарная, глупыш. Я живая. Я прихожу, когда сердце зовёт. А у тебя оно сейчас — как почка, что хочет лопнуть, но боится мороза. Заяц ничего не ответил. Только прижался к ней лбом. — Я не могу снова доверять, — прошептал он. — Меня оставили. Не враги, не чужие. Те, кого я считал... — Своими, — кивнула Весна. — Это самое больное. Когда те, кто должен был греть, приносят стужу. Они молчали. Долго. Но пока они сидели, в доме стало пахнуть мокрой землёй. Сначала где-то на краешке коврика, потом под подушкой, потом прямо из окна. Весна расправила плечи, и в доме стало светлее. — А знаешь, что я тебе скажу, Заяц? — она наклонилась, заглянула ему в глаза, серьёзно-серьёзно. — Всё равно ты не один. Потому что есть я. Я всегда возвращаюсь. Даже если долго нет. Даже если тебя пытаются убедить, что ничего не будет лучше. Я приду. И всё прорастёт. Даже в тебе. Особенно в тебе. Заяц глубоко вдохнул. Сначала ничего не почувствовал. А потом — запах мяты, запах надежды. Как в детстве, когда кто-то гладил по голове и говорил: «Ты молодец. Просто подожди ещё немного.» Весна встала и, прежде чем уйти, оставила на его лапе один крохотный росток. Он был смешной — тонкий, скрюченный, неказистый. Но живой. — Он вырастет? — спросил Заяц. Весна обернулась. Подмигнула. — Если не затопчешь — обязательно.

  🔥 𝔢𝔫 🔥

The Tale of the Herb Hare and the Spring That Never Fails

When winter decided — for the fourth time that year — that she still had something to say, the whole forest community quietly vanished. Some into burrows, some into old barrels, some under their beds. But the Herb Hare stayed in his little mint-scented home, made of dried plants and quiet sighs, chewing on time. He didn’t cry — hares rarely do. But something was gnawing at him from the inside. Not exactly pain… more like disappointment. Like when your tea goes cold while you were trying to explain something important — and no one was listening. “I melted everything for them,” the Hare mumbled to himself. “But I’m the one who’s frozen.” That’s when Spring slipped in — right out of a bundle of wormwood hanging on the wall. She always does that: never on schedule. Always when needed. She smelled like warm earth, rain, and bare feet taking their first steps. Her hair looked like a puffed-out dandelion. Her voice tickled the heart like laughter that bubbles up from nowhere. “There you are,” Spring said and sat beside him without caring that her dress was soaking up the chill. “I thought you’d only come with the calendar,” muttered the Hare. “I’m not a calendar girl, silly. I’m alive. I come when your heart calls. And yours? Right now it’s like a bud — swollen, scared, but desperate to burst open.” The Hare said nothing. Just pressed his forehead against her shoulder. “I don’t know how to trust again,” he whispered. “They left me. Not strangers. Not enemies. The ones who were supposed to protect me.” “Your own,” she nodded softly. “That’s the cruelest frost — when the ones meant to warm you bring the cold instead.” They sat in silence for a long time. And while they sat, the house began to smell different. Like damp soil — first at the edge of the rug, then under the pillow, then blooming from the windowsill. Spring straightened her shoulders, and light spilled into the room. “Want to know something, Hare?” she asked, looking deep into his eyes. “No matter what they did — You are not alone. Because I’m here. And I always return. Even when they try to convince you there’s no better ahead. Even when everything says ‘give up.’ I come back. And things grow. Even inside you. Especially inside you.” The Hare took a slow breath. At first, it felt like nothing. Then… a scent of mint. A whisper of hope. Like being a child again, when someone stroked your head and said: “You’re doing well. Just hold on a little longer.” Spring stood up. Before leaving, she gently placed a tiny sprout on his paw. It was crooked, fragile, a little ridiculous. But alive. “Will it grow?” asked the Hare. Spring turned back. Winked. “If you don’t stomp on it — absolutely.”

[naamamanana]

#27 (ru)

Соберу лепестки и гирлянды сплету. Воззову из глубин сердца раненого. Больную пустоту заполню до краев Цветами медоносного твоего имени.

Кто я для тебя? Что за радость могу Принести я тебе, изначальному? В тени дуба-друга вспомню древнюю тоску По забытому, близкому, славному.

Как не звала бы слезы, не верь именам. Прямыми ли путями, окольными ли, В пустой ли жизни, в прославленной ль тьме, - В потаенной пещере найти бы тебя. 

Апрель-Май 2017, Абентоер, Германия

[naamamanana]

#35

Medium for My Kirtana.

Afraid to look into the eyes of death, While wealth of every moment Flows in vain.

The manual To the specifics of this birth - Lost under the upbringing’s rod.

Your instrument, From out of the heart in search for medium To manifest your fame.

Why don’t I trust your word - In need of yet another proof, afraid To look into the eyes of God.

May 2017, Voronezh, Russia

[naamamanana]

#16

May I be a better student of yours Undisturbed by the lables And the society's forms.

How tiring always trying To be approved, accepted To fit into the tight ill-fitting space

To freely feelingly be myself, To bear the bare honesty, The deep desires' reality, Undefined within a finite society.

Theirs, ours, Tradition, formation, Loyalty, partiality. Within - without duality.

March 2017, Goloka Dhama, Germany

[naamamanana]

#14

I am

A tiny petal in a multitude of flowers To be offered to you. No one else will know.

A vessel full to the brim with your love, Carried to all who you miss. Never empty.

A child slowly waking in your safe embrace, Heart to heart, Whispering your name.

February 2017, Goloka Dhama, Germany

[naamamanana]

#13

I am the earth, I am the wind, I am the melting snow - A thinning thread tightly weaved Into his loving song. I am for him, in eternal exchange, learning to welcome - and give, Ever’ve been treading the gracious stream Of his weave.

February 2017, Goloka Dhama, Germany