Who is Akash ? - A confession.

 Am I a Name?

Am I a name? Or am I a writer who believes he just hasn’t had enough time to write, or enough people to appreciate the work?
Am I the emotional one who seeks comfort, who searches for love? Or am I the one who offers it?
Am I the name that was given to me—Akash? Or am I the person you call a friend, a son, a brother?

If knowing me means knowing my behaviors, my thoughts, my actions—then maybe I am the sum total of what I’ve done, what I am doing. But is that all?
Am I simply what has happened to me, or is happening?

When I think—truly think—about this, I realize, certainly,  I am a body and a mind.
Does what I ate yesterday, or what I did a moment ago, define who I am now?
If so, then who I am must be shaped by thoughts and actions—summarized, added to, subtracted from, divided into—the totality of my experiences.

All the information I’ve absorbed until this point has become thought patterns and behaviors I now mimic. I often believe my ideas are original—pieces never crafted before—but I didn’t create the paper I write on, nor the pen I use or the very words that I am using to express myself. They were given to me, or I obtained them, for this very purpose.

What happens to me may be circumstantial, but how I act upon those circumstances arises from my emotions and reasoning—the same emotions and reasoning that were once handed to me as information, now expressed as my actions.

So is there logic behind my being? Or is it all emotion?

It's not clear.
Life was never meant to be clear.
I used to wish it were black and white—but this thing, this life, is made of grey matter. The substance that shadows are made of—present in one moment and gone in the next.

That might sound depressing, but I’ve found it liberating.
Being a writer feels just as absurd as the way the universe works. Yet, I am here, nonetheless—writing.

An example comes to mind: the bee.
By aerodynamic standards, bees aren’t supposed to be able to fly. But they do. And someone said maybe it's because no one ever taught them physics.
We exist—against all odds. And even though it’s frustrating to attach ourselves to names, roles, positions—things so impermanent—we do it anyway.
We know it’ll end, maybe in 80 years, maybe tomorrow. But still, we live.

We create.
We strive.
We love and we try to be loved.

So, I do not fully understand myself—let alone the world—but I am here, minding my own business, doing what I do. About the question of Who I am ? I, fortunately, do not know the answer. 

This is an Image of Me.