Told by the Unknown)
I was born, but I don't remember it.
I think I was.
I think someone must have cried, or maybe they didn't.
I sometimes wonder if I ever cried at all.
I breathe now, or at least I think I do.
I feel the air move in and out, but there are days when it feels mechanical, like I'm borrowing lungs from someone else.
I don't know when I stopped belonging to myself.
I used to look into mirrors to find answers.
I thought reflection meant truth, but all I ever saw was a stranger repeating my sins a second too late.
I hate that delay—it reminds me that even my reflection needs time to pretend.
I don't remember when my thoughts began to echo instead of speaking.
I talk, and then I hear my words again—but softer, distorted, rearranged like an old voice note I can't delete.
I think too much.
I feel too little.
I exist too vaguely.
I envy people who believe in purpose.
I once asked someone why they smiled, and they said, "Because I'm happy."
I didn't understand that answer.
I still don't.
I sometimes dream of being someone else.
I've tried being the sky—endless, unjudged.
I've tried being the ocean—deep enough to drown the noise.
I've tried being human again, but every time I put on that skin, it tears at the seams.
I think I had a family once.
I remember a hand that patted my head.
I remember a voice that said, "You'll be great one day."
I think I failed that day before I was even born.
********
I sit now in my room—though I don't remember how I got here.
I stare at the walls.
I imagine they're breathing with me.
I wonder if they too are pretending to hold themselves together.
I used to believe in love.
I thought it was warmth, but now it feels more like fever.
I thought it was connection, but now it feels like infection.
I think I loved once—but I don't remember their name, only the echo of laughter that didn't belong to me.
I sometimes wonder if I am real.
I touch my hands, and they feel like gloves.
I touch my face, and it feels like paper.
I touch my heart, and it feels like someone else's heartbeat playing through a wall.
I remember school.
I remember people calling me names that didn't sound like mine.
I remember trying to respond to each of them because maybe one of them was who I was supposed to be.
I became everyone.
I became no one.
*******
I thought of dying once.
I thought maybe I already did.
I thought maybe this—whatever this is—is just the afterimage of who I was supposed to be.
I thought if I stopped thinking, I'd stop existing.
I tried.
I failed.
I keep a journal.
I don't write words anymore, just dots and lines like Morse code for pain.
I wonder if someone will decode it one day and realize it's just me trying to scream silently.
I've met people who said they knew me.
I smiled and pretended to know them too.
I think that's what humans do—we shake hands with ghosts and call it friendship.
I laughed at their jokes.
I mimicked their emotions.
I felt nothing.
I learned how to fake laughter by watching others.
I learned how to cry by watching films.
I learned how to be normal by watching strangers in parks.
I learned that "normal" is just the mask that fits best in public.
I've been told I overthink.
I've been told I'm too serious.
I've been told I'm not myself.
I want to ask them who "myself" is—but I'm afraid they'll have an answer.
I think of God sometimes.
I wonder if He feels lonely too.
I wonder if He made us to see if something else could feel the same emptiness He does.
I wonder if He's proud of what He created—or if He regrets it like a painter staring at a smudged canvas.
I hate sleep.
I fear it.
I love it.
I chase it every night like forgiveness I don't deserve.
I wake up and pretend I'm refreshed.
I never am.
I've been told to be grateful.
I've tried.
I thank the morning sun, though it burns my eyes.
I thank the wind, though it whispers secrets I can't bear.
I thank life, though it's more like a debt than a gift.
I had a therapist once.
I told her I don't know who I am.
She smiled and said, "That's normal."
I didn't go back after that.
I didn't want to pay someone to normalize my disappearance.
************
I hear voices sometimes.
I think they're mine.
I argue with them.
I lose.
I win.
I stop keeping score.
I think people don't actually want truth.
I think they want comfort wearing truth's clothes.
I've tried to tell people how I feel.
I've learned that silence is kinder.
I used to collect photos of myself.
I deleted them all.
I couldn't stand the way I looked happy.
I couldn't remember when those moments were real.
I couldn't tell if they were ever mine.
I once saw a child playing in the rain.
I envied how pure it looked.
I thought, maybe if I ran into the rain, I'd be washed back to who I used to be.
I ran.
I didn't find myself.
I found mud, and cold, and a mirror puddle reflecting someone I don't recognize.
I think people mistake survival for living.
I think that's why I can't tell the difference anymore.
I breathe, I move, I eat, I sleep—but do I live?
I don't know.
I don't think so.
I have dreams sometimes—if I can call them that.
I dream of being the last person on Earth.
I dream of silence so deep it drowns me.
I dream of peace, but it feels like suffocation.
I dream of being free, but I wake up in a cage I built myself.
I hate mirrors.
I hate memories.
I hate mornings that look too much like yesterday.
I hate words that mean nothing, just spoken to fill space.
I hate myself for hating everything.
I've tried to love myself.
I looked in the mirror and said, "You're enough."
I laughed.
I didn't believe it.
I sometimes think I am not a person.
I think I am a story told by someone else.
I think I'm just a character playing a part in a play I didn't audition for.
I think the script was lost halfway through.
I think the audience left a long time ago.
I walk down the streets and pretend I'm invisible.
I wonder if anyone sees me or if they only see the reflection of themselves in my shadow.
I smile when they smile.
I frown when they frown.
I'm a mirror—unwanted, yet always used.
I used to think pain meant I was alive.
Now I'm not so sure.
Pain feels too familiar, too rehearsed.
I think I've become addicted to it because it's the only thing that still feels real.
I wrote this because I don't know how else to exist.
I speak because silence feels heavier than guilt.
I live because dying feels like letting someone win.
I don't know who that someone is.
I've lost count of how many versions of me there have been.
I think they're all still here, screaming inside, fighting for control.
I think one day one of them will win.
I hope it's the one who still believes in something.
I sometimes hear people say, "Be yourself."
I want to ask—which one?
I think maybe I am not supposed to find out.
I think maybe that's the point.
I think identity isn't discovery—it's decay.
I think we are all slowly peeling off layers until we realize there's nothing underneath.
I wonder if you—yes, you—ever feel like this.
I wonder if you've ever looked in the mirror and seen someone else looking back.
I wonder if you've ever said "I" and doubted who spoke.
I wonder if you're reading this because you're searching too.
I hope you find yourself.
I hope I find me.
I hope there's even a "me" left to find.
I end this story not because it's over—
I end it because I can't tell if it ever began.
I don't know who I am.
I don't know if I ever was.
I don't know if "I" even exist.
I...
Stream Commentary; Tape #55. "I".
The screen flickers. Kai sits in his chair, arms folded, face unreadable.
The room behind him is dim—only the faint glow of monitors reflects off his glasses. The four followers appear in their usual spectral boxes.
"So… what did we just read?"
[@Ovesix: A story told by someone who doesn't exist… or maybe exists too much]
[@Jaija: It gave me goosebumps! The narrator said I so many times I started doubting myself. Like… was I the one speaking? Was I the one being watched?]
[@642: Heh. I like it. I like when stories mess with the brain. It's delicious. That sense of losing grip on identity—mmm, insanity done right]
[@Enchomay: But the question remains: who—or what—was 'I'? A consciousness? A spirit? A fragment of guilt? Maybe the story itself was speaking]
(Kai shook his head)
"Or maybe you're all wrong."
(The chat goes silent and Kai smirks.)
"See, most readers think they can define 'I'.
But this story… this one doesn't give you that satisfaction.
It's a mirror.
Every word 'I' wrote—was you reading yourself back."
[@Ovesix: So it's about perception? About how fragile identity is?]
[@Enchomay: Or about the illusion of control. We all think we're the ones speaking, the ones deciding. But maybe we're just echoes inside someone else's story]
[@Jaija: Wait—so what if the narrator wasn't a person at all? What if it was an emotion? Like guilt? Or loneliness?]
[@Enchomay: Or perhaps something darker. Maybe 'I' was the thing observing us—through the pages, through the screen, through this conversation. What if 'I' never ended when the story did?]
(The chat pauses for a moment)
(Kai, smiling faintly)
"Now you're getting it."
[@Ovesix: Kai… you're not saying—]
"No, I'm saying that sometimes the scariest stories don't have monsters.
They have pronouns."
[@Jaija: But then what was the point? What's the moral? Are we just… nothing?]
"No. The point is that humans fear being forgotten, but what they fear more—"
(He pauses, eyes narrowing)
"—is realizing they were never real to begin with."
[@Enchomay: That's… bleak]
[@642: That's beautiful]
(Kai shrugs)
"It's truth. And truth doesn't care about comfort."
(The camera zooms slowly on Kai's face)
" Beware of stories that talk back to you.
Because once you start questioning who's narrating… you might never find your way back to being you."
[@Jaija: Then who are we?]
(Kai softly chuckles)
"Readers."
(A cold silence. The screen flickers again.)
( Kai leans back, exhaling)
"Next story… ah, this one's going to sting a little. A question that doesn't just haunt—it wounds."
(He turns toward the camera, his voice lowering)
"Next time, we'll dive into the one called—"
"Mother, Why?"
"Ask it only if you're ready for the answer."
STREAM ENDS