The Question I'll Focus on Today is Who Am I?

Written by Dave Winnyk on 5/1/2022

The Question I’ll Focus on Today is Who Am I?

The question I’ll focus on today is Who Am I?

Not I, the voice speaking to you,

And not the voice of you speaking,

And not the events my eyes and ears witnessed,

And not the words my tounge and lips formed from air,

And not the feelings set upon me like weather,

But I, the experience.

Who am I as the witness of time and space?

Who am I as the observer of breath?

Who am I when I am not rebuilding my memories?

Who am I when I am not examining my thoughts?

Who am I when I am not feeling my emotions?

Who am I when my voice is silent?

Who am I when I am the void?

Who am I when I am inanimate?

Who am I when I will be still?

Who am I when I am now?

And now,

And now,

And now—

Not forever—

A Finite Now.

One of billions

On a rock

A wash in

A sea of ether

As countable as sand

As obtainable as time.

In my anxiety, I contemplate freezing my cyphaloid—

the crainial structures, brain, and spinal chord,

usually severed at the clavicle—

In hopes, that from the nothingness,

I will be awoken in an alien world

With an alien body.

All the aliens would ask me:

“What was it like to be a human?”

And I’d tell them all about us.

I’d sing all the songs

I’d rehearsed centuries ago

In cars,

In showers,

Walking down allyways.

I’d tell them about breakfast,

And how we would walk around with coffee cups,

Or water bottles,

Or cigarettes,

And we all had our favorite things.

I’d tell them about movie theatres,

And all the different ways you could go:

With a partner,

And miss the action

Lost in someone’s eyes;

With friends,

Laughing and shouting so loudly

The cast and crew could hear;

With yourself,

Totally engrossed in

The mile-high screen—

no matter its dimensions.

I’d tell them about clocks,

And what it was like to be late.

But most of all,

I’d find it hard to explain

How futuristic it all felt

Existing in such a primative time.

But what if,

When their machines revitalized my cyphaloid,

It was blank,

Like a defrosted chicken

With an Intel inside,

Serving only as proof

Of millenia,

Of currency,

Of research,

Of drive,

Wasted on death.

In my peace, I know I will end.

And so will it all.

An ending so ended

Nothing will be there

To show there ever was anything to begin;

And still, I ask, who am I,

As if there will be an answer.