I am that I am

In a dream so lucid, suspended between life and death, searching for self down a stream of consciousness I saw the infinite. A Universe staring whimsically back at itself. Remembering a white priest berating a 9-year-old version of this pristine incarnation :”Only the dead speak to the dead!” while I dusted my knees off after making dua at my Fathers grave. His dead owned my dead, I suppose for them there is nothing left to be said.

“Who am I?”, I ask the Infinite onlooker, eyes deep as the ocean, my soul wrenching at the undertow. Whirling in pool of my confusion; all that was left unsaid left much to be desired. Remembering an Asian man testing the mind of a 15-year-old version of this adolescent incarnation: “Desire is the root of all suffering”, so I desired to have no desire and suffered once more.

“Who am I?”, I ask the Infinite self, skin as pecan as the African hills, such beauty tied my stomach in Bantu knots. Is this love or lust? The question reverberating down the corridors of my mind, remembering Mother and Father the day I chose them to be mine. Remembering before I was born. Remembered my many deaths. Before Infinity becoming I, and I became infinite.

“Who am I?”, I asked once more. The silence bestowed upon me a violence so wretched the mind waged war against the heart. Hands trembling, shoulders weak, knees buckling from the weight of the gift, the anointing: “Who am I?! Chosen to live this life? Unworthy and misguided, why did you choose me? Who am I?”

The silence bestowed upon me a violence so wretched that hope waged war against time, but the Infinite eventually replied, while rolling in her cradle, laughter bellowing from her navel: “Who are you?”



A brief reminder of Solitude