I know who I was, I can tell you who I may have been, but I am, now, only in this line of words I write. I'm not sure of the nature of my existence, and wonder to find myself writing.

I know who I am and who I may be, if I choose.

I cannot know who I am, because I don't know which part of me is not me.

One is certain of nothing but the truth of one's own emotions.

What you are is a question only you can answer.

Who is it that can tell me who I am?

Why Am I Afraid To Tell You Who I Am?

Have you ever thought about it? If somebody asks, “Who are you?” what do you answer? You say your name. The name is not yours, because you came into the world without a name. You came nameless; it is not your property, it has been given to you. And any name, A-B-C-D, would have been useful. It is arbitrary. It is not essential in any way. If you are called “Susan” good; if you are called “Harry” good, it makes no difference. Any name would have been as applicable to you as any other. It is just a label. A name is needed to call you by, but it has nothing to do with your being. Or you say, “I am a doctor” or you say, “I am an engineer” — or a businessman, or a painter, or this and that — but nothing says anything about you. When you say, “I am a doctor,” you say something about your profession, not about you. You say how you earn your living. You don’t say anything about life, you say something about your living. You may be earning your living as an engineer, or as a doctor, or as a businessman — it is irrelevant. It does not say anything about you. Or you say your father’s name, your mother’s name, you give your family tree — that too is irrelevant because that doesn’t define you. Your being born in a particular family is accidental; you could as well have been born in another family and you would not even have noticed the difference. These are just utilitarian tricks — and man becomes a “self.” This self is a pseudoself, a created, manufactured self, homemade. And your own real self remains deep down hidden in mist and mystery. I was reading:

I am not who I was, but I know who I am.

I belong to the people I love, and they belong to me — they, and the love and loyaty I give them, form my identity far more than any word or group ever could.

Nobody can teach me who I am. You can describe parts of me, but who I am - and what I need - is something I have to find out myself.

Well, I know what I am, and that’s what counts more than anything else, because the people don’t know what I go through. They think I’m born this way. They don’t know what it took to get this way.

I dont know what I am. I dont know if I am or not.

Now that I’m free to be myself, who am I?