'Who am I?'

That particular question had plagued me for years when I was in high school. I could never figure it out. Sometimes when I was looking out of the window of the car I would think about this question and be struck by a sense of exquisite loneliness. There was another feeling along with it, but I can only explain that as being a lack of surety. It was like the sensation one has when falling through the air. The sense of balance is so disturbed that one loses track of which way is up or down. Or if one is in a darkness so complete that they can't even see their hand two inches from their face. The sense of where their arms and legs are become disturbed, for there is no visual stimulus to validate what they feel to be truth from other senses.

Back then when I asked that question I could not find an answer. Why are these perceptions I have mine? Why was I processing them? Why was I in this body instead of some other one? Who, or what, was this I that thought these thoughts and called this body a home?

Sometimes at night I would sit in bed and stare at the ceiling and find myself asking this question. Who am I? This problem, this question cut through to the core of my being. This was the most honest question I could ask, and it was by far the most important. What was the super bowl compared to this? How could I care about something so trivial and meaningless?

But I didn't know the answer. All I could find were more questions. Why was I who I was? Why didn't I know what that `other' person was feeling? Why was I me and not them? What was this `thing' that is creating these words, these questions? Why was this `thing' here?

I never really feared the fact that I could not answer this question, but it was incredibly saddening. Sometimes the asking of the question didn't click in my mind. It would just happen and then go by. But there are a few times that I still remember, when I was thrown into the depths of introspection and solitude. I came through that with a tired mind and will. I would just sit staring out the window or at the ceiling after that. For a while I was free of thought because I was spent.

That question gave me a lot to think about when I was younger and I have never found an acceptable answer. How can anyone know who they are or why they are? It requires a little something more then this limited mental process we have. But that's all we've got, so we must learn to make do.

In some ways I have learned that, for I never ask myself the question anymore. 'Who am I?' Well, I know more of who I am now, at least in terms of what has shaped me over the years I do. But regardless of the who and the why, I am more comfortable in the knowledge that I am. And whatever that means I leave for whoever is reading this to decide. After all, looking inside oneself is a highly subjective thing. For me, it is a simple declaration, this thing I consider myself, exists.

What does this mean? Damned if I know... sometimes thoughts just don't make sense, but they are there nonetheless.