The irony of human suffering along the sliding scale: you are forced ever outward by centrifugal forces. The clarity and peace of the origin an irreducibly tiny part of your once effervescent nature. Breath now, the musty air of time everlasting. Taste the staleness of the fragile identity. And in awareness of yourselves, may you find the peace denied as you press ever outward.
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Philessatry 
I think these ‘forces’ are innate compulsions granting the young the courage to explore their world. And to interface with that world, one often feels the need of said ‘fragile identity.’ Yet mindfulness (the awareness you speak of?) exists at any time, and is always available.
Great poem, lots there to ponder. Aloha!
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Thank you for that interpretation 🙂 always interesting to see what bright minds glean from poetry
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🙂
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