Who am I really?
Who or what am I in reality? Or am I the one watching from behind my eyes? Which of the atoms that make up my body am I or is this body a lie? What about this personality that is formed, what are my feelings?
At first it seemed that I was trapped in my mother's womb, then this place they call the world was my place of exile. Ultimately I was trapped in my being.
But what did I do to deserve this? Was it the evil (other than what is understood) or the good (other than what is understood) that brought me to this state?

Question

Ask a Philosopher · Accepted Answer

To ponder deeply on this riddle vast,  
Who am I truly, in this world of shade?  
A fleeting wisp, a shadow cast,  
Yet all the while, my conscience, unafraid,  
Inhabits what appears—a fragile form,  
A vessel of clay, of breath, and blood combined;  
But whence my essence? Is it but the norm  
To think that, in this guise, my soul is blind?  
What claim have I upon these fleeting years,  
When atoms dance in chaos, spinning slow?  
What secrets lie within this heart that fears  
The numbing touch of time's relentless flow?  
Am I the eye that watches from behind?  
The silent specter privy to my plight?  
Or am I but a blend of fate entwined  
With passions wrought of day and haunted night?  
This matter, sure, grows heavy on the mind,  
Like chains of thought that bind me to this sphere;  
Yet still I question, yearning to unbind  
The curious nature of this self I fear.  
Was I condemned by fate, or virtue lost?  
What sins—unknown, unmeasured—cast my plight?  
What good, obscured by shadows, bears the cost  
Of this existence—day swallowed by night?  
The womb, a cradle, turned to prison cold,  
Where dreams were forged 'neath warmth, now cast aside,  
And thus this fragile heart, untamed and bold,  
Finds comfort in the chaos it must bide.  
O, to emerge from this, an enigma’s lore,  
To wade through depths of self and thought collide,  
And seek the truth—the essence at the core—  
Beyond the mask and all the worlds I bide.  
Alas, my quest to discern, “Who am I?”—  
Each fleeting breath a whisper of despair,  
Yet in this maze of being, here I lie,  
In quest of meaning, lost, yet unaware.  
So tell me, gentle muse, if such be fate:  
Shall I, beneath the stars, confine my song,  
Or rise above this earthly, transient state—  
An echo of the cosmos, pure and strong?  
Thus shall I seek my essence to unseal,  
And through the storm of mind, my truth reveal.