I am my own person, own persona but who am I? Who am I? Am I not the sum of my parts - the perennial influences that have made me who I am? We wax lyrical on our residing souls, nature and constitution that truly defines, demarcates us but do we really exist as soul? Or do I exist as the perennial influences of my upbringing and that my bulwark of a soul is nothing but a falsified truth? I do not know for it is a neverending interplay of our environment and apparent make believed self-hood. I have been thinking that my self could have been conceived by chance, by hitsuzen – an inevitablity that is not by design or chance. It is a conscious and subconscious choice to be who I am. 'Cogito ergo sum' 'I think therefore I am' Descartes, you proclaim these theories of knowledge and self but how do we think good, successful and healthy thoughts when the thoughts around us are everything but good?
I am the sad and lonely constitution of my own influences – the materials I have been exposed to have defined an irreconcilable piece of me. Sylvia Plath's “How much of my brain is willfully my own?” and yet all that material could have not been my willful choice? They were inevitably by chance for as I sit here in the room with greenery around me, I might not have been here. I might have been somewhere, someone else by a tiny slip of fate. I could have been different. The 'what if' of the world are a dangerous place, they portend disaster and chaos of the mind because have not all the greatest crimes been conceived in the mind? To the thought polices in the world, silence them for they are the infants to thought crimes.
I should not dwell in my what if. I must not. It beckons path not taken, lost and missing conceptualistation of self. In another alternate universe, if I had walked Path A, I could have been whole. I could have been alive, burning and full but I have not walked Path A. In this universe, I have taken the path I have deemed aligned to my state of mind past and present. I have trek the empty road and the empty road will bring me to greater, narrower, further roads – arbituarily. But if only, I could will myself to the final destination. They say 'All roads lead to Rome'. If only, the self can will itself there but my conceptualisation is weak and failing. I am chipped and scabious and all the parts that constitute me will crumble in time. The glue that holds my scabious form is lost. I am all alone.
To The Outsiders, I apologize for my broken promise. I apologize for our flawed promise. Our dreams will not hold true for even as we take different paths, it might not lead us to Rome – the Holy Grail of our dreams.
All roads lead to Rome.
Isn't death the final destination and the
Rome of all man?
What an ironic, twisted joke would it be if the proverb is true.
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But I hope not, I still desire, möchte for our whirlwind trip to Europe. I still desire to be whole again. Self-egoism has no place in an universe designed by contingent occurences. I am alone, we are all alone and we will be alone together.
