Then why are we?
And who whispers to me,
“You are you”?

Is it the world,
Or the voice within,
That shapes this thought—
That I am me?

But what is “I,”
If not a question?
A mirror held up
To endless reflections?

Can one know the self,
Without first asking—
Who am I not?
And why does being linger
In this space between thought and doubt?

To think I am,
Is to begin the journey—
Not to answer,
But to forever inquire.