Who Am I?

Dear S.K.,

(aka Secret Keeper)

I love how typing “Dear S.K.” at the top of this page made me feel. It would be so cool to be able to start a book with that. A story of someone’s life. But usually stories are interesting, aren’t they? With lots of action, whether it’s drama or adventure or whatever. My life is so uneventful. It’s full of introspection and talking to people and doing work and just killing time.

And somehow, I find that interesting. Clearly. I find my life interesting enough to live it. Which is strange because I think everyone else would find it terribly boring. What, I wake up in the morning, do my routine, sit down to work, work and kill time until official work hours are over, and then usually read or talk to parents or talk to Ryan. Sometimes I sketch, sometimes I paint, sometimes I play violin. But what else is there to my life? Nothing.

And somehow, I find that interesting. Clearly. I find my life interesting enough to live it. I think it's about the emotions that I feel while doing all these things. Or perhaps the thoughts that come with them. The golden dreams I have now that I’m falling in love again and the diamond aspirations I have now that I am in the beginnings of my career.

I think that in reading my journal and resurfacing the past, I realized a couple things the other day. The most important of which is that I talk to you more about my day and the external events than the internal ones. Sure, the internal thoughts come out in my writing, but it’s mainly tied to some external event. Whether it was because I took some time to myself and realized something or because something happened, I only express my feelings as a result of a story.

So, I guess my life is a series of stories, huh? Then why do I not find it interesting when I read about it? Is it because I don’t talk about every single thing I do in the day? Or every single day? Or is it because of the way I tell it?

What if I started writing my life as if it was a story? A story to be memorialized and read by millions of others, to touch their hearts, to light up their souls, to connect to their experiences, and to show them my humanity in all its vulnerability.

I think that’s what’s special about writing so candidly – it’s the vulnerability. It’s the knowing that who I am and the person in these words is simply between you and me. Whatever picture I paint stays between us, a secret.

That brings up an interesting thought. The words I choose to write to you are one reflection of the person I am. It is a world of its own. Words only capture so many ideas, so many facets, but there is a whole world of life and depth behind these words written on paper. There is so much more life and depth behind the words that create an idea of who I am.

So who am I? How would I describe myself? As a character in a novel or in a TV show? What world would the writers create for me?

Words are only more boxes. Boxes that either define you and constrain you or define you and liberate you. But either way, they limit who you are. Your energy, your soul, cannot be captured in mere words.

Then, what about pictures? Every picture speaks a thousand words, isn’t that so? But how many pictures is enough to capture the essence of a person? How many words? A picture can show the physical vessel in which you exist. But if you were to jump bodies, would you not still be the same? Or would you? Would your physical vessel change who you are? It would change your experiences, which would change your thoughts, which would change your beliefs, which would eventually change the impressions made on your soul. But underneath all these layers, you are still you. You would still identify as you. So you, or this idea of you, or this essence of you, does not change at all. Only the superficial layers are transformed and influenced.

Then, if not pictures, if not words, then what? What would capture the essence of a human being? How do I find the essence of who I am? Underneath all these layers. I can’t ask anyone, for they will only say these superficial things. They will list off my characteristics, my likes and dislikes, my identity as Shreya. But beyond Shreya, I am something more. I am not just Shreya. I am something that can be Shreya, but it can be anyone else too.

See, I believe in this theory that we are all made of life stuff. I’m going to think of it like glitter or sparkles because that makes this life stuff seem so much brighter and bedazzling. But I believe in this theory that we all have this sparkle within us. Each and every one of us. And these sparkles connect us all as one. Therefore, we are all one and the same. Like cake. Pound cake, since Ryan said he’s making some next week for me. Pound cake is still pound cake, regardless of how many pieces it is broken into. Not only is it still pound cake, but it is the same pound cake. The same cake it was when it was first baked, the same one that was first cut, and the same one that finally landed on your plate.

Then why do I identify so strongly with this notion of “I”? Why, despite understanding that at the root of it all, we are all the very same thing, do I still have such a strong sense of individuality? That concept of me, at the very heart of this identity, even after shedding all my layers. You would think that after shedding all the layers, you would eventually shed this sense of self as well, wouldn’t you? Then why is this not true? Why is there such a strong idea of me?

Which brings me back to who am I? I am not these superficial labels. Yet I am also not just the life stuff. I am something in between. Or am I?