Who am I? Short creative reflection inspired by a Langston Hughes poem.
Theme for English IB I
"The instructor said,
Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you -
Then, it will be true."
I went home and this is what I wrote:
My name is I. I likes to breath. I likes to breathe life; a life in abundance.
Is I a real person,
Or does I exist only in my own imaginary world?
Is I the centre of my own universe,
Or is I a synchronized version of the person sitting next to me,
Trapped in a body not my own?
Is I a dream waiting to be realized
Or is I just me?
Am I a real person, or am I in the clock of life, telling the incorrect time? Sometimes I am unrecognizable - like an innocent child staring into a mirror and seeing a stranger before them. I do not recognize me. I am in a fairytale. But fairytales are not tales of fairies; instead they are tales of imaginary life, not true life. Not my life - therefore do I exist only in my own imaginary world?
Am I the centre of my own universe, am I the gold at the end of my rainbow? Am I a girl, innocently, naively, pacing in a daunting world? Am I a synchronized version of someone else, trapped in a body not my own? We are each one of us like a pocket of air in the sky of life, some tainted with rain clouds. But storms soon drift on, allowing the blue to be restored and making way for the fresh clear sky once again. I feel as if I am trapped in a tiny bubble, a bubble filled to the brink with dreams and desires. But these dreams and desires have no freedom, freedom needed to express themselves. For the bubble to pop, would allow the dreams and desires to drift off in the breeze. To leave the bubble alone would be to remain trapped.
I am the sky, the limit of me.
Surrounding a cave of darkness is a lining of light. A light not yet bright because it is still gaining momentum, so that it can eventually, hopefully expel all the darkness. But a gentle wind scatters the light so that the exterior of the cave is lit only by a few candles dotted beyond. A puff of smoke
"The instructor said,
Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you -
Then, it will be true."
I went home and this is what I wrote:
My name is I. I likes to breath. I likes to breathe life; a life in abundance.
Is I a real person,
Or does I exist only in my own imaginary world?
Is I the centre of my own universe,
Or is I a synchronized version of the person sitting next to me,
Trapped in a body not my own?
Is I a dream waiting to be realized
Or is I just me?
Am I a real person, or am I in the clock of life, telling the incorrect time? Sometimes I am unrecognizable - like an innocent child staring into a mirror and seeing a stranger before them. I do not recognize me. I am in a fairytale. But fairytales are not tales of fairies; instead they are tales of imaginary life, not true life. Not my life - therefore do I exist only in my own imaginary world?
Am I the centre of my own universe, am I the gold at the end of my rainbow? Am I a girl, innocently, naively, pacing in a daunting world? Am I a synchronized version of someone else, trapped in a body not my own? We are each one of us like a pocket of air in the sky of life, some tainted with rain clouds. But storms soon drift on, allowing the blue to be restored and making way for the fresh clear sky once again. I feel as if I am trapped in a tiny bubble, a bubble filled to the brink with dreams and desires. But these dreams and desires have no freedom, freedom needed to express themselves. For the bubble to pop, would allow the dreams and desires to drift off in the breeze. To leave the bubble alone would be to remain trapped.
I am the sky, the limit of me.
Surrounding a cave of darkness is a lining of light. A light not yet bright because it is still gaining momentum, so that it can eventually, hopefully expel all the darkness. But a gentle wind scatters the light so that the exterior of the cave is lit only by a few candles dotted beyond. A puff of smoke