Who are you?

I don’t know.

Except my name, what is my identity?

How does the world know me? How will it remember me? Will it see the parts of me that no one claps for? Will it see the scraped knee and hazel eye? Will it remember me for the hands I held and homes I broke? Will it forgive me?


I am not my name, neither am I the scribbles on the last page of my Math copy.

I am not my most listened to song, I am not the warm blood that never clots.

I am not the stories I write nor the poems I live.

I am not my mother’s daughter, my teacher’s pet.

I am no one. I don’t know who is me.


I feel lost. I feel afraid.

I can’t see myself among the bustling crowds in these narrow lanes.
I can’t seem to find myself in the thickets.

No torchlight ever lights up my face as much as an old flute tune. I have poems scratched on my back, riddles on my palm. But I am not my body.

I am not the air I breathe, nor the lungs that are keeping me alive.

I am not the one who sits on my chair and sleeps on my bed.

I am not the highlighted lines from a novel I never finished.

I am not my recurring nightmares, nor my pleasant daydreams.

I am not the fairytales woven in childhood, nor the assortment of clothes in my wardrobe.

I am everywhere, yet I’m nowhere.

I am in there, but I can’t see me. I’m in life, I’m in death.

Oblivion is my home, but I’m seldom home. I’m in the sawdust, in the starlight, in the leaves of the pine tree. I’m everywhere, but I’m not bound.

Today, I’m free.

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