Who are you when the light's all go out and vacuum takes away the last sound? Who are you when there are no people or mirrors around? Who are you in that last moment before sleep takes over? Who are you the first thing in the morning? Who are you when there is no awareness, not even your own?
There are a very few things that have troubled me as much as this. Ever since I learnt the beauty of putting words to my thoughts, I have grappled with the one question: Who am I?
I know that this is a vast, bordering-on-boring, question. And I know that I have no real answer.
But sometimes I reach the edge of understanding. That little flickering hope of clarity that almost descends before disintegrating.
I know that I may never know who it is that I am or what it is that really brings me into this chaotic, senseless, almost-insane, world. But I know with utmost certainty what it is that I am not. My moments of understanding usually happen when I am accused of being someone who is anything but me. I feel that rush of anger, desperation and dejection each time someone pushes me to miserably prove what I know with such surety.
There is a deep trench. On one side there are those that have touched the core of my existence and felt the denseness of who I really am. And on the other, are most other people: those that judge me at the edges of what makes me less than myself, those that make up their minds and write me off at the word go. I have learnt to not take either too seriously.
After all, where is the sense in feeling joy or pain in half-understanding or unintelligent misunderstanding?
Over the years, the question has remained, but I have learnt to be less engrossed and distracted by it. I have loosened my grip and let understanding slip, without feeling miserable. I have learnt that questions don't always have to be answered.
There are a very few things that have troubled me as much as this. Ever since I learnt the beauty of putting words to my thoughts, I have grappled with the one question: Who am I?
I know that this is a vast, bordering-on-boring, question. And I know that I have no real answer.
But sometimes I reach the edge of understanding. That little flickering hope of clarity that almost descends before disintegrating.
I know that I may never know who it is that I am or what it is that really brings me into this chaotic, senseless, almost-insane, world. But I know with utmost certainty what it is that I am not. My moments of understanding usually happen when I am accused of being someone who is anything but me. I feel that rush of anger, desperation and dejection each time someone pushes me to miserably prove what I know with such surety.
There is a deep trench. On one side there are those that have touched the core of my existence and felt the denseness of who I really am. And on the other, are most other people: those that judge me at the edges of what makes me less than myself, those that make up their minds and write me off at the word go. I have learnt to not take either too seriously.
After all, where is the sense in feeling joy or pain in half-understanding or unintelligent misunderstanding?
Over the years, the question has remained, but I have learnt to be less engrossed and distracted by it. I have loosened my grip and let understanding slip, without feeling miserable. I have learnt that questions don't always have to be answered.
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