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Prose,  Written literature | Author's writings

Who are you?

Take a deep breath and ask yourself who you are, of everything you have wanted to become all your life. What did you turn into after all those uncomfortable, inevitable encounters with life? What did they do to you? Can man always become what he wants and why not? The same question always occurs, those doubts rooted in our consciences, what separates us from our dreams and why steps are not easy on the path that leads us. If we divide ourselves into desires and disappointments, then we’re divided into people before and after what we are now, because current existence is just that, a moment. That toying of the mind with our ideals is what sustains us even when it manipulates us because it’s one of the most beautiful and profound forms of self-destruction, right? Of course, we are not aware of this when we blame ourselves for one’s failures, omissions, and bad judgments. Overflowing with potential, and empty because lack of opportunity screams the quietest of all others. Life doesn’t reward us by advancing us into anything more than the concept of a man. We need to improve ourselves even if we end up standing alone in the same place we started. We also ask ourselves the most absurd questions when we remain uncertain about meaningful ones, but there’s no single answer satisfactory enough for what we have yet to discover. There are only theories, which are mostly wrong. Who are we and who are we paying here? Do we pay ourselves, or do we surrender to the norms? Is it true or only charades? Where critics drink our sweat and relish our failures, even if they are right? Where do we belong, and why do we continually feel like we do not belong anywhere? Tell me, reader, do you know who you are? Do you know why you are here, and why not? Tell me, for what reason do you exist and think you live, so that, in the end, you only relax your body and close your eyes, falling down the hill only to get to the beginning of your life wondering if you lived? But, it’s about going to a crime scene voluntarily, you can’t go back without being trapped there. If it is ridiculous to think about our position on earth, our role, and whether we are credible in this world, then we are all caricatures of our amateur art. We don’t all think about it, but even superficial people break under the pressure of reality once their dreams crash. And you can’t get out of that grip. You only have to let reality do its thing so you can do something for yourself. We are all equal, and yet, too divided. We don’t know who divided us, but we accepted every division. They told us we were like that, so we stay that way until we become people for ourselves or someone else’s. Until we become crazy from the desire to find out what we carry and what we transfer as we think we’re quiet, invisible, no one. Can we address ourselves if we don’t know who we are addressing? Which face? Is it from yesterday or tomorrow? And the biggest irony of all is looking at both faces with a smile on this one today and pretending that we’re not different versions of everything we failed to be. And, when we speak to ourselves, we don’t know how to listen, we cannot hear ourselves, and so we don’t affirm what we are and who we are. We don’t allow each other to be our own, and we bloodthirsty demand that the world satisfies our neurotic desires without accepting the burden we choose to carry. We avoid seeing it, deny it, when it gets too heavy, and flex our spine. If we do it, why do we do it? If you know, we all know. Another smile and a show can go on. The audience is here, so we have to respect it. Then we become psychologically dependent on each other, playing a role, completely jump into it, acting that we’re sure of who we are. Unconscious of doing this, but are we? We stand proud, with our heads up, and believe in it after some time, because time becomes only a dramatic effect at the end of the day. When we lie to ourselves for long enough and with self-belief, we eventually believe in those lies. And deep down, we know we don’t know anything. We take into account the opinions of others, then talk to the voices of all the characters inside us, and turn our heads away from confrontation. Unfortunately, we often cannot prevent consciousness from being split from other psychic functions of ourselves in an attempt to bridge the gap between ourselves and others. The moment we reach the point of accepting that we’re the same as the others, we change, we look for what we are special, we look for differences, and we want to stand out for them. We want to be outstanding, unique, authentic, different, but again, we don’t understand who we are, and it’s quite rare to take the right way to that deep knowledge of ourselves. It’s even rarer to find it. The steps are always harder than the road. And, the mold which shapes us, throws us away. Because it’s easier to be a part of a collective identity than it is to explore our own, even after finding ourselves as someone we wanted to be. And last but not least, is it more important for us to show it in front of the masked world, or to know who we are and what makes us this, and to preserve the actual truth for ourselves?

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