The Grand Delusion

Who are you?

A simple question.
How will you answer it?

With a name? Wrong answer. What does that tell anyone of who you are? I don’t care if your name is Robert or Clair or Metastophilies. I don’t. A rose by any other name would still smell as sweet and have the same thorns to bleed me dry.

I;ve never looked at a person and been able to go “Yeah. He’s a Robert alright.”

My question is not asking for your identification. It’s asking who you are, at your core.

What lurks behind those eyes and smiles and social masks?

Who are you in the trenches when the world falls down? Who are you late at night, when the world is sleeping?

Are you the man with the smiling face to cover the sorrow of a life long dream unfulfilled?

Are you the woman who cries silently into the darkness, for fear of what lives there?

Are you a fighter? A writer? A doer? A singer? A dancer? A god king in human skin? A hero who is waiting to begin?

Are you the puppet or the puppet master? The bringer or joy? The ender of lives? The one? The only? The last?

Who.

Are.

You?

Is there more to you, than the simple part you play, in the grand delusion?

Well?

Tell me then.

Who are you?

-K