Who am I

Who am I? I cling to values and ideas to try and mold myself to them. In reality they are not me. Some semblance of their beauty and perfection at some point may have impressed itself upon my soul. I am just a mirror, a reflection of the events and lessons through which I have passed. Yet still they are not me. They left their mark, however, a bruise perhaps? Am I just a collection of letters assembled into intricate, refining patterns and replicated since the beginning of time? A repository of EVERY wound, afflicted, then adapted to? Am I what I eat? Consuming every minute of every day, an empty vessel containing thoughts and emotions, echoes of good times and bad? Repressing pain and frustration while longing to relive the good nutritious experiences keeping it all locked inside somewhere beneath my conscience? Or are the ideas and values I hold inside what is real and their collection in one place the only thing of worth. Often I ask these questions when I search for meaning, feeling disconnected from life.  I hear a voice when I speak, it is not me. Someone moves when I think, it is not me. I sit here behind the projection screen viewing the experience of some life, a distant observer. I examine the walls that house my thoughts, a crude appearance, and realize that I am not who I appear to be. I wonder for the first time how often my shell has shielded me from the true perception of others. Perhaps the question is malformed or unimportant. Is state of being important for value and worth or even function? Is appearance indicative of worth? Of course not, but who can see through the lenses that house my essence? WHO do they see? WHO DO I SEE? Another reflection from another time or another person.

If I am not I, who will be?