Who am I?
Who am I? These three words do more harm than a metallic gun. Who am I? We strive for the answer but what we receive are programmed answers.
Yet, when we stand in the mirror not a single illustration proves that we are an occupation, that we are a family member, or that we are a group member. When the mirror reflects it is just I, a physical manifestation of a design. Who’s design, many answers arise, but how many of them are programmed from learned growth, and how many come from the depths of truth?
Outlines, guidelines, and restricted space, may have been alright for a time, but days progress, nature progresses, why is it that humans believe that their progress stopped with their ancestors? Why do we believe that comprehension does not expand?
Without propulsion, we exist in limbo, masking our individuality with exclamations of action. Things we do become who we are. I want to be? Is thrown out of mouths at the rate of speed. I want to be like him? I want to be lIke her? I want to be a rapper? I want to be famous? I want to be anything, but me.
Reality hits like colliding freight trains, I want to be anything, but me. Me? Who is me? We don’t know, have never known. We’ve worn personalities like gloves slipping them on and off hoping one would fit, and when it doesn’t the closest one is alright for settling.
Lights flash in our eyes as we see persona’s splashed across all screens. We notice how people fawn over them, how they are loved by the masses. We yearn for that, we strive for that adoration by any means necessary, but have we taken a second and looked at the fine print. How much is an act?
“The streets are truth,” they preach. “That’s the life,” they herald. But when the gloss and cameras evaporate what we see are manicured lawns and ivy league schools. We hear language of a high IQ, while we sit back and stutter to mimic their cues.
Who we are has no precedence. Who we are has no clear blueprint. There are no signs, no pictures, and no words from without that can identify the truth within us. It’s high time someone shouted. “I want to be me,” so ‘who am I’ can become creation instead of devastation.
You can find me here: http://www.zti.me/futurebodymoney