Who are you?

Is the self real or an illusion?

"Who are you?"
Voices called out from the unseen,
Cold and distant, yet striking deep,
As if they knew the answer already.

"I am I," the reply came,
Whispered, resolute—yet uncertain,
A truth claimed but barely trusted,
As though the words were stolen.

Who are you, now that we are you?
The voices merged, twisting into one.
In the exchange something shifted.
Something nameless took shape.

The "I" was gone, unmade in silence,
And the question lingered, hanging—
Not for an answer, but for what remained in its place.

Who are you?
Asked again, softly.
But in the silence that followed,
There was no need for answers,
Only an understanding that had always been there.