“Boku Wa Dare” [Who am I]
WHO am I?
Honestly even I, can’t answer this question, but I will try to figure it out who really em I. let say that I’m a living creature, standing up here in the planet, I’m a human being, that exist here in the world, not only buy my existence, but truly my innerness action that’s why i exist here in the world.
We, us, have their different kind of Personality, Nationality, Religion, Attitude, Experiences, and so on! We maybe smart, or not, or we may be rich or poor. Recently on my studies, being is “parousia”, being also has existence to be a being, that’s why I’m a being who exist on this world, so what am I pointing out? Because, this is the most fundamental question that i ever thought.
If I compare myself into a tree, the tree will say, who am I? The tree will say “I’m a tree” who also grow, and transmuted, I give oxygen to people, giving fruits; I have roots to remain in my position and absorb water from the ground and live. Comparing myself to a tree I also, grow, changes countenance,, I breathe, gives jubilant and experiences to others, I have feet to walk, and I also feed. Base on my comparing the tree has existence to be a being, that’s why tree is a being because it exists!
So who am I to you anyway? Let’s begin i”m a human being and you are human being, but what kind of relationship do we have? Do we have the same language? That’s why we can relate ourselves to each other; do we have the same nationalities? Definitely yes or maybe not,
So who am I?
They often tell me, I stepped from my cell’s confinement Calmly, cheerfully, firmly, like a squire from his country-house.
Who am I? They often tell me I used to speak to my warders Freely and friendly and clearly, as though it were mine to command. Who am I? They also tell me I bore the days of misfortune, equally, smilingly, proudly, Like one accustomed to win.
Am I then really all that which other men tell of? Or am I only what I myself know of myself? Restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage, struggling for breath, as though hands were Compressing my throat, Yearning for colors, for flowers, for the voices of birds, Thirsting for words of kindness, for neighborliness, tossing in expectation of great events, powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance, Weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making, Faint, and ready to say farewell to it all?
Who am I? This or the other? Am I one person today and tomorrow another? Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others, And before myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling? Or is something within me still like a beaten army, leering in disorder from victory already achieved?
