Setting the angel free

Identity is a strange concept, one that is heavily debated, as if the right answer lies just out of reach. Is it a fluid notion? Are we the choices we make? Are we made up of the things we love? Or is our identity like our safe haven. A home, buried deep within, a place of refuge, that no matter where life takes us, we revert back to, for self preservation.

Michaelangelo once said, when asked about how he knew what each sculpture was going to be, ‘I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free’. I believe there’s an angel inside everyone; and life, everything that happens to us, to me, is the carving. Chipping away piece by piece until the person you always were underneath is revealed. The angel represents our identity, each unique, though in many ways the same. Maybe, if we are extremely lucky, we get to set the angel free, before its too late.

I know that to many of you, this may not seem like identity. Though to me, I am still merely searching for answers I’m not convinced I’ll ever find. I’m at the age, where, according to society, my life should be set. I should be settled down, married, with one or two children, living in a suburban house I own and committed to a professional career. That’s not me. I don’t think that will ever be me. Not that I’m complaining. It’s been clear for many years that I don’t conform to social norms.

But lately I’ve been at somewhat of a loss. Drowning under the questions of who I am. With less answers of certainty than usual. I do believe that every interaction with another being has the potential to change the course of our lives. Every situation that we find ourselves in, is a mark on our souls. That we are creatures tossed and turned in the washing machine of life. But that despite this, the essence of who we are remains firm underneath. Or is this me hoping?

She looks like my mum but that’s all, she’s not there behind the eyes. Her sent, so familiar, is long gone. I’m not sure she knows who I am; no memory of the daughter she raised. She’s shaking, I’m shaking, though for different reasons. I run.

He looks at me the right way. He says, for the most part, the right things. My body initially embraces him with warmth. Then betraying myself the convulsions start. I’m crying and he doesn’t know why. I don’t know why. I run.

She knows me, she sees me. Knows what I need, when I need it. Although in this moment she makes me angry, ashamed, betrayed. I feel I have failed. Despite this I’m moving towards her, I want her, I know she wants me. Is it ok? I run.

Normally I overthink it, I always overthink everything. Not now. I need it. I can’t even explain why. My hand is steady as I grip the neck of the beer bottle. Turning it upside down I smash the bottom on the rim of the sink. Relief. Just as the blood starts to run, they’re in the room. Stop. I run.

When the world becomes too loud. When my emotions become untenable. When I can’t take any more of people. I always end up in the same place. The reasons change. The furniture changes. The location changes. I’m older. I wear different clothing. My skin depicts a different person. Yet I return to the same place.

Curled up with a fleece blanket, next to a fire, candles crackling, listening to a particular folk song (that’s etched into my soul), with a glass of red wine, reading poetry (the same book I’ve had for decades), wearing her perfume.

Then, and only then, do I feel like myself; do I feel closest to my angel.

My identity is wrapped up in all my senses, in all my memories, in all the people I’ve met, in all the things I’ve done, in all the places I’ve been, in all the things I feel and in all the things I’ve thought.

It’s in a scent, from the past, of the person I love the most, who never comes home. The soothing tones of an age old tale of love, to an audience so silent the power is palpable. Words printed on parchment that resonate so deeply, I feel I might not be alone. The heat from the fire which brings into my orbit every country pub I’ve ever been into, joy sparking into the atmosphere. And the taste of the complex rich sweetness of life, shared with many friends, over many evening, over many years.

I venture out to chisel a little more marble away, but I always come back in the end. Maybe one day my angel will be free too.