Who?

[Sorry about the tardiness, I was busy with somethings and I could not write earlier. Or at least, I could not put the words on "paper."I have been writing that for a while. Also, this time, it is a preface I decided to include. What follows is a glimpse of what goes on in my head, it is not always like that, but some events tonight have placed words in my mind that were... Well, I tend to overthink things, this is one of these things, but then again, I felt I needed to let this out. I guess... I don't know. This is about me, but not entirely. This is about the self. I think. It might be about the self that should be in bed, hence my rambling... Oh well, sometimes this blog has to be a bit more about the author behind it. Hopefully, my 2 readers won't mind.]


I once heard the question: “What makes a true warrior?” and saw the answers. One would claim a true warrior is the one who no longer needs to fight. Another said that a true warrior is one who becomes a weapon for a master, one who has only purpose in being that weapon. The final answer was that a true warrior is one who is true to the purpose of destruction, and needs no master, nor principles beyond destruction.

I am no warrior. I do not serve a master, do not serve a purpose, and I am not freed from fighting. In fact I do not know who I am. I feel like I’m standing on water, my body is mist, and my mind a labyrinth. To question the nature of one’s purpose is interesting, to question one’s purpose is scary. To question the purpose of one’s existence is… No one really knows what it is really.

Am I a writer? Do I follow a greater purpose by writing what is held up inside? Is my sole purpose to write? And if I become the best, will I stop writing? One could assume that by writing I feel I am a writer, but nothing of the sort is true. I don’t feel I am any closer to other authors by virtue of putting words on paper. I write, I can write, I love to write. But that does not make it my purpose.

The same could be said of my being a student. I know what I study for, I know what I study, but do I truly know why I study? There is that story I tell, the one about the job I had to leave. But while I left the job to become a student, it was not the why of my nature. I cannot see that why.

I am not many things. I am not a musician. I am not a singer. I am not a painter. I am not a sculptor. I write but I am not a writer. I am not a critic. I study but I am not a student. I am friendly, but I cannot be my own friend. I am not a lover, for lack of a loved one. I am not a son, because I no longer need a mother.

I am lost. Lost in myself. Lost in myselfs. I cannot, will not, do not know why I am here. Why should I? But I wonder. Everyone has a purpose, a reason. Everyone I see is wanted, needed. Me? Me…

Do I exist simply to make others feel their sense of purpose?

I am a dreamer.

Are dreams my purpose?

Should I simply sleep?

The real question here is now what am I, but who am I? I should know that. I have a name. I have a place. But names are given, as are places. Where do I stand in the middle of this torrent of questions?

I stand, on a river, on fluid ground. Myself a misty self. My self a lost consciousness. I don’t know who I am, I don’t know many things about me. I do know one thing: I miss you. Now can you tell me who you are?