I am a concealed presence, a shadow that blends into the environment. My body is enveloped in a dark, fluid cloak, almost as if it were part of the space itself, as if I were an extension of the shadows that form in the crevices. The cloak has no defined shape, it adapts to my body, but at the same time, it seems as if it never truly touches it, as though it is always at a slight distance, floating around me, obscuring any attempt at identification. The fabric is heavy, yet soft, as if made from a substance that absorbs light and, at the same time, swallows it.
My face is hidden, not by a mask, but by the absence of expression. The contours are blurred, almost indistinct, and my eyes... ah, my eyes are two deep voids, like bottomless wells, reflecting the light without truly capturing it. There is no shine in them, no emotion, only a distant look, as though I am in constant observation of something I cannot understand, or perhaps something I was never meant to touch. They are the eyes of someone who has seen everything but remembers nothing. They are opaque, lifeless, without direction.
The hair, if I can even call it hair, grows in disordered strands, always falling in a way that further obscures my face. It is not cut precisely, it does not follow any trend or style. It seems more like a tangle of forgotten thoughts intertwining without purpose, like ideas that never materialize. A bit of whiteness begins to emerge at the roots, as if time, no matter how hard I try to avoid it, is beginning to mark my skin, but in a way I cannot stop.
My hands are always hidden within the wide sleeves of the cloak. There is no specific reason for this, but it seems that I hide them to avoid contact with the world. They are thin, pale, as if they have never been used for anything significant, as though the mere act of touching them, of acknowledging them, is a reminder of the emptiness they represent. My fingers have no well-kept nails, no signs of labor, just marks of the wear of an existence that was never truly lived.
My body is skeletal, but not in a noticeable way. I am not too thin, but neither do I have form. I do not have a strong presence, nor a definitive absence. I am like a breeze passing by, unnoticed. My walk is unhurried, without direction, as though I am always waiting for something that never arrives. There is no haste in my steps, as if time does not affect me, as if I am outside of it.
Sometimes, my cloak seems heavier, as though with each passing day, I am burying myself deeper inside. It drags on the floor, scratching the silence, but without ever breaking it. Every fold of the fabric is a metaphor for what I am: a distorted being, hiding, avoiding revelation, lost in its own formlessness.
I am the archetype of apathy, the reflection of what no one sees, but is always there, a symbol of an existence that never found purpose, an identity. Every part of me is a representation of emptiness, as if I am in constant flight from being seen, from being understood.
I did not change by choice, it was not my decision to transform. I was shaped by everything around me, by the pressures and expectations of the people who occupied my life. They pushed me to a place where I no longer recognize myself, and today I am just a shadow of who I once was. I constantly hear, "You've changed so much," as if it were my choice. But I wasn't the one who decided to change. I was forced, almost as if I had been dragged into a transformation that destroyed me from within.
I see myself now as something no one wants near. Like a strange, rejected, and misunderstood being that no longer fits anywhere. I feel like I am a being that has lost all of its humanity, transformed into something grotesque in the eyes of society. I am no longer a being who can connect, who can engage with others. I have lost the desire to be part of something because, over time, I have been emptied by expectations, by demands, and by rejections.
And now, I look at myself and wonder: who am I really? Where is the one I used to be, the one who still believed in the value of connections, in the beauty of a simple smile, or the power of a genuine conversation?
Who am I?
I see everyone around me, living their lives, their relationships, their interactions, and I feel an increasing distance between me and the world. I, who once could feel something, am now just an apathetic spectator of others' lives, a distant observer of everything that happens. Every word I hear, every gesture I see, feels more and more distant from me. I, who was once part of this world, am now like a stranger, a disconnected being who no longer understands how to fit in or how to belong.
And what hurts is that, despite no longer being who I was, I still carry the marks of that transformation. There is a constant feeling of emptiness within me, as though there is a space in my being that can never be filled. They try to convince me that this is normal, that this is just a phase, that everyone goes through this at some point. But I know it's not normal. I know something inside me broke, something that will never be fixed. And deep down, I feel that I have been torn apart by the pressures of being someone I am not, of being what others expect me to be, of trying to please everyone and losing myself in the process.
The worst part is that, even with all this emptiness, I can't free myself from this feeling of being trapped in a role I never chose. I am like a piece of a puzzle that no longer fits, forced to stay there because it was placed in that spot, but with no real purpose. There is no more passion in me, no flame that once lit my days. What remains is an overload of expectations, a constant pressure to be something I, deep down, never wanted to be. But at the same time, I don't know how to escape this. I don't know how to be myself anymore, how to disconnect from this version of me that was built by others, by circumstances, and by the demands of the world.
I no longer recognize myself in others, nor do I recognize myself in me. I have been pushed away from myself, without having the chance to understand what it truly means to be me. Every time I try to reconnect, I feel resistance, as if part of me is trying to hide from what it has become, as if my true self is trapped in a dark place, too afraid to come into the light. The worst part is that I don't even know where this dark place is. What's left of me is an emptiness that never gets filled, a constant feeling that I am no longer capable of being who I was. I am a distant echo, a memory of a being that may have existed, but today is unrecognizable even to me.
I see the people around me, and it's like they are living in a parallel reality. They have dreams, they have hopes, they have desires. They are alive, while I, in some way, am no longer. I am just existing, as if life has left me behind, as if I am a memory of something that no longer matters. I try to deceive myself, trying to maintain some sense of normality, but the weight of being what others want me to be is overwhelming. And deep down, I know I can never go back. I can't recover what I lost, I can't recover my essence.
What remains is this emptiness, this sensation that I am trapped in a colorless, shapeless, senseless existence. I am a being in constant conflict, trying to fight against something I can no longer control. I try to find some purpose, some reason to move forward, but every step feels heavier than the last. Every attempt to connect with the world feels more distant, more difficult. I am a stranger in my own skin, a being divided between what I was and what I have become, between what was expected of me and what I truly am.
And the most frightening part is that, deep down, I fear that this loneliness, this emptiness, has already become a part of me. That I have become the reflection of what society made of me, that my identity has been consumed until there is nothing left. I no longer know who I am. Maybe I never did. And maybe that is the greatest sadness of all: to know that, despite trying so hard, I was never able to truly be me.
What am I? I ask myself this every day, and the answer seems to fade away, dissolve into the emptiness. Do I exist, or am I just a distant echo of something that once was? If I am not remembered, if I am not mentioned, then I am nothing, right? Everything that is not recognized, that is not preserved in people's memories, fades away, disappears, as if it never existed. So, what am I? Something that perhaps only existed to not truly exist?
Who are we, such small beings in the face of the vastness of the world, in the face of the fleeting nature of our existence? Who holds the control over everything around us? Who is the true owner of nothing, when nothing seems to matter and everything dissolves in indifference? I see myself in an endless search for something, a definition, a purpose, but all I find is a spiral of doubts and questions. Who am I? Who am I? Who am I...
I think that, deep down, we have the power to create and destroy. But is this a gift or a curse? We are horrible precisely because we have the capacity to choose, to decide, to affect the reality around us. Because, by choosing, we are responsible, but at the same time, choice is what gives every act a dark beauty, a raw intensity. Choice makes everything horrible because we know that, by opting for one thing, we can destroy something else. And yet, we cannot stop choosing. Choice defines us, consumes us, shapes us.
But, in the end, what am I? Am I horrible or beautiful? Is there anything beautiful in me, or is my essence just a reflection of everything I've lost? Am I truly worthy of existing, or am I just a fleeting illusion? Maybe I will never know the answer. Maybe doubt is the only thing I truly have. Who am I? Do I exist? Or am I just a shadow, a fragment lost among endless questions?
Who am I? Who am I...
I look, I walk, I perceive, but what I see pushes me even further away from myself. I see a world where everything has a purpose, where everything is useful, usable, and, somehow, important. A pencil, for example, is a simple tool, but its value is clear: it exists to be used, to fulfill a function, and everyone knows its utility. It has a role in the world. People use it, it has a history of use, of usefulness, and that makes it memorable, recognized, indispensable.
I, however, am the opposite of that. I am nothing. I'm not remembered, I'm not useful, I'm not needed. The world revolves around consumption, the constant use of everything and everyone around us. Soft drinks, water, food, even the air we breathe â everything serves a purpose, everything is consumed, everything has value. But me? I, who am not consumed, not remembered, not used, where do I fit? Where do I belong amidst all this utility?
It's strange to think that a simple pencil, with its single purpose, is more important, more memorable than I am. It can be used, scribbled on, remembered for its marks, while I am just a forgotten echo. I walk around, but no one notices. I speak, but no one hears. I exist, but no one cares. The pencil is consumed, used until it wears out, and its existence has meaning, has value. And me? I'm just another empty presence in a world that only cares about what is useful, about what is consumable. What am I if I'm not useful? What am I if I'm not remembered? What am I if no one uses me? Maybe I am nothing, the vacuum between what exists and what disappears. And maybe, somewhere deep within me, I know I am just another thing the world forgets as it passes by.
How many people have lived and died before me? How many names have been lost in the pages of history, simply because no one remembers them anymore? Me, for example, when I'm gone, will anyone remember my name? Will my existence be remembered, or will it be just another drop in the ocean of oblivion? If it's not spoken, if it's not kept somewhere, it disappears, like a shadow that fades with the fall of night. A pencil, at least, stays there, being useful. It's important because it has a purpose that persists, a function that doesn't fade with time. But me? I'm just another face in the crowd. Billions of people occupying the same space, with the same idea that they are special, but in the end, we are no more significant than any other object. In the end, we are all just matter occupying space until someone forgets us. Even if I'm unique in my essence, my individuality won't change the fact that, without remembrance, I don't truly exist. So, in the grand scheme of life, I'm just a point of a pencil, or even less than that. A thing that can be used and discarded, leaving nothing more than a mark on paper.
Does anyone care about who created the pencil? Who is more remembered? The creator, or the pencil itself? The creator might have been a genius, but they are just another lost name, a name that, over time, has faded like sand between the fingers. The pencil, on the other hand, continues there, being used every day, essential to millions of people, to write ideas, to create worlds, to exist. The pencil is eternal, even if its creator has disappeared into oblivion. It's more important, more remembered. No one remembers who invented the pencil, but everyone knows what it is, knows what it does, and everyone uses it at some point in their lives. Maybe we are like the creator of the pencil: we create our own stories, but we are just a shadow of them, always at the mercy of forgetfulness. In the end, we are the creators of our own existences, but who will remember us when we're no longer here? What will endure: our usefulness or our memory? And maybe the answer is clear: the pencil. It, indeed, remains.
I don't understand.
... ... ...
Who am I?
"If even nothing is remembered for what it ceased to be, what am I, if not a nameless absence, lost among the things the world chose to forget?"
"I am nothing, but at the same time, I am everything, because my essence doesn't fit into labels, names, or expectations. I am just the librarian of my own existence, the one who observes but never defines himself, the one who is everything and at the same time nothing, lost between what I see and what I am."