Who am I?
Who is this person called me?
Maybe I am as society knows me.
A collection of memories and thoughts
In the minds of others;
A thin mist held amongst a collective consciousness.
There’d be too much conflict.
We know the self to be at odds,
But contradict it cannot
Maybe I know who I am.
Aren’t I ever-present to myself;
My thoughts and motives always at the forefront of my own
There’s likely more conflict here than anywhere.
But, I am…
This person called Me exists,
And exists somewhere;
It must be known.
For how else could I be
Unless I am known?
There is a Mind.
One that knows Me fully;
In all the wretchedness and glory of my humanity;
The entirety of my being.
Yet plagues me with perceived anonymity
In the hopes that I’d reciprocate,
In whatever limited way,
By coming to know it,
And in that knowledge finally find what no one else could: