Identity crisis – who hasn't had one?

Here are my qualifications:

Born in one country, raised in another. Absent father syndrome, working mother syndrome. An only child with a wide range of step- to whole-siblings - and this is just off the top of my head.

In my twenties I would travel around the western part of Europe, looking for me in various places. I would position myself like a piece of jigsaw and press into the whichever community and hang there for a bit. Weeks or months would go by until I'd realise that I am not really a Bayern nor a Scot. More of a Madrileña than a Londoner, but neither of those really.

The closest I've come to is Paris, where I now choose to reside (for the third time). I suspect it has nothing to do with Paris, France itself, but that it is central in my chosen play field as I know there are still unexplored territories that I need to press myself against to see if it is the right fit. The perfect fit, no less.

Lately, I've been playing less scavenger hunt and more house with my life, but got reminded of this topic at a dinner party last night. There was a great discussion about the need to know your origins. The spark to this debate was the fact that Iceland does not have a sperm bank and gets its sperm from Denmark and surely the next generation of artificial inseminated children (the children being the consequence of the insemination, of course) will most likely found an organisation that seeks there origin. Not to mention that Iceland will become Danish, again.

Regardless, I realised I had not had that pity-party for the longest time, and much to my surprise, I had hardly noticed the absence of my endless quest of who I really am. And today I woke up with the thought that birth is my mother, death is my father and I am life.