Who is the true you?

What defines me?

I ask myself this often

The majority answer would be

A sun, the center of a solar system

All the planets that orbit

Are inhabited by the people

And the experiences that surround me

Situations on each planet change

Species go extinct

Atmospheres dissolve

But I am the center of it all

It depends on me

 

But this cannot be true

If a sun is removed from its system

The planets would lose orbit

Chaos of crashing and collisions

The system would become non-existent

If I am removed from the system

The world around me will not cease

Events will continue to occur

Yet I would still leave a mark

 

Perhaps I am a circus

Opening my tent for anyone who buys a ticket

Happy clowns, sad clowns

Daring tightrope walkers, graceful trapeze artists

Timid elephants, confident ring leaders

Putting on an extravagant show for those who attend

Constantly traveling to new audiences

 

But this too cannot be true

What of the relationships I hold dearly?

A circus does not know the audience like a loved one

And the emotions I feel while alone?

Circuses do not perform for empty tents

What of my varying experiences?

I have witnessed more in my life

Than a few repetitive acts

 

So maybe I am a puzzle

Each piece an experience partaken in

Each piece an involvement in the world

Incomplete without every part

Every part intricately fitting together 

A wrong piece in the wrong place distorts the image

And causes trouble for later development 

The image unclear until completed

 

Yet again, this cannot be true

Because when is the puzzle completed?

At the moment just before death?

That is not much of a showcase

For the completed masterpiece

Just a memory remaining for those who choose to glance

 

Maybe I am nothing

Just an idea, a mere thought

Floating through the heads of those that use my name

Floating through space and time as a spirit in the darkness

All that I perceive just an illusion

Caused by desire and belief for existence

 

Yet I find myself sitting at my desk

The flood of cool air from the ceiling fan

The heat radiating off the lamp

I can smell the empty potato chip bags that litter the space

And I sit weighted in my chair as it pushes back up

I cannot be nothing, for I interact with my surroundings

In such sacred ways, soothing my crisis

 

The most I can do now is carry on into tomorrow

Continue the existence that I seem to fill

Acting as I feel best fit

What defines me?

I ask myself this often

I have yet to reach a conclusion

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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