Quiddity means the essence of a thing.
I don’t know a first thing about myself;
Much less the essence…
My conscious is a thought factory.
My subconscious a born mystery.
Who am I, if not my thoughts?
Who am I, if not my dreams?
What it means to be me, if I can’t control either?
I refuse to define me therefore,
I refuse to believe there is any me anymore.
A paradox in itself,
I’m unable to even refute myself, without putting an ‘I’ in the sentence…
My words teach me, how to see the world;
and I have to admit, I don’t have the sharpest set of eyes.
But I know a truth can be sharp enough to be felt, too.
And I do feel things.
My insides are always boiling with emotions.
Trying to break the surface.
Anonymous even of the core of myself.
The meaning always beyond my reach,
My surface always grey & subdued.
I burn through books,
They refuse to tell me, what I’m meant.
The white of their pages blacken,
their spines slacken,
in agony they scream;
as I turn them into heaps of ashes.
Echoing their final words to salvation-
‘All life is suffering.’
I’m a bit more foolish,
and still nowhere in my quest;
I sift through my wayward dreams.
I’m a tired, single cell organism.
I’m a twinkling, flicker in a pitch black darkness.
‘Morse Code Morose’ is my name.
On and off,
On and off-
Slowly beginning to discern, everything that I’m not-
and isn’t that a progress on ‘who I actually am’?
The stars in the sky blink as the unsolved mystery carries on.
The cryptic broadcast continues.