Self Reclamation Essay- II

"Surely, the people themselves are still alive. But they are the blind and deaf man among many other blind and deaf ones.

But you, do you still want to have the eye of knowledge? As long as you still experience the stars as something 'above you,' you lack the eye of knowledge."

~ Thus Spoke Zarathustra, Friedrich Nietzsche

 

Who am I?

I am either too young or old enough. I should know better, or I need more experience to understand.

I follow the rules too strictly, or I break them too easily. My two good shoes are either holding me back or proving I’m too impulsive.

I care too much or not at all. My heart either overflows—restless, eager, all-consuming—or it could put the harshest winter to shame.

I am either too strong or too weak. I’ve been told I don’t have to be strong all the time. I’ve also been warned the world will eat me raw if I don’t grow a spine.

Who am I? I am neither here nor there.

Yesterday, I was a seven-year-old bursting into my house with a balle balle dance only a child could pull off. Today, I’m 27, always tired, forever trying to catch my breath or my break. And what have I gathered while running from pillar to post, searching for my bearings, trying to plant my feet somewhere that feels like home? That I don’t know anything.

If I am too anything, I am too much or too little of everything. And because I never quite fit anywhere, pleasing people feels like the boulder to my Sisyphus. When you chase targets others set for you, you lose track. You lose your values, your integrity, your identity. And still, people remain unhappy.

Which is ironic, isn’t it? The moon is loved for its phases, its imperfections, its disappearance, and its renewal. But you—you are shamed for it.

Here’s what I do know: You are a sigma—No, no, this isn’t a ploy to reveal that I’m actually a 12-year-old prepubescent boy with an illegal Instagram account.

I mean Σ—the sum total. You and I are the sum of our lives. Our memories. Our experiences. Our people. Our places. And our contradictions.

We are stories written in half-finished sentences, footnotes lost in the margins, questions that refuse neat answers. We are laughter that echoes in empty rooms and silence that says too much. We are the ones who linger in places we’ve outgrown and the ones who leave before we’re ready. And that—that—is worth celebrating.

Because that’s you. In your rough edges, tousled hair, eyes half-asleep but awake with dreams. And this living, breathing, imperfect amazement of you? It is enough. It is great as it is.

It was never about the herd. Or the black sheep. Or sheep at all. Don’t underplay your existence. Because there is so much about you that screams mattering. Even if only a smattering.

There is a text in your appreciation, waiting for you to read it. A mention of something funny you said at lunch earlier today. A memory of a song you sang weirdly, living rent-free in someone’s mind. A cup of coffee in the making. And at every turn you take—yes, life awaits you.You only miss out because you are searching for it in the wrong place. If you dig wells on parched ground, you will die of thirst. But if you turn around, you would not believe the cascade that was always there. Just look for it.

And that unceremonious, cross-auditorium hunt for the pen in the first essay—the moment where people don’t even remember they borrowed it? That cliffhanger?

Remind them. Ask for your pen.

And for yourself—ask.

Some will smile and return it. Some will roll their eyes and call you petty. Some will toss it back at you with all the grace of a crumpled receipt. But at least you asked.

Because no matter what you do, it will come at the cost of someone’s comfort. So don’t fit into molds—break them.

And if you must lose your breath, let it be chasing what belongs to you. Your dreams. Your identity. Not fretting over, “But what will they think?”