Oneself

You don’t know me.

Not really.

No one does. I hardly know myself sometimes.

The face in the mirror a stranger. The reflection aside, how do I see myself, how do I know myself? How do I find again, myself?

How do I search for myself, where would I even begin to look? Are we all this lost? Searching for a life amongst the weeds. Waiting perhaps for a sign, some clue, some hint of who I am.

Are we all fooling ourselves, deceiving ourselves? Telling lies to ourselves that we know who we are. That we have all the answers figured out.

I think most don’t try, they don’t bother digging into their own existence, preferring instead to live outside of their own lives. The pain of trying to search for something more, too great.

I am not most.

And so I dig, and so I search, unable to not try. My desire greater than my fears. My will stronger than the possibility of the pain.

To know oneself when all around me don’t or won’t.