Echoes Within

Who am I, when the mirrors fall silent,

When the faces I wear crumble into dust,

And the names I answer to fade like footprints in sand?

Am I the sum of what others see,

Or the shadow behind their eyes,

A whisper they never hear but feel?

I am the heartbeat beneath the quiet skin,

The pulse of a thousand untold stories,

The tremor of a soul questioning its own rhythm.

I am the laughter that hides my fear,

The tears that speak a language

No one else can translate.

Who am I, when the night stretches its long fingers

Across the window of my mind,

And the stars seem too distant to guide me?

Am I the silence that follows the storm,

Or the storm itself,

Raging and relentless,

Tearing through fragile walls I built to protect myself?

I am the memory of every “no” that cut deep,

The echo of every “yes” that lifted me higher than I thought I could soar.

I am the scar stitched into the fabric of my being,

The mark of battles fought and survived,

Some seen, some buried beneath layers of careful disguise.

Who am I, when the world demands a mask?

Am I the mask, perfect in its fit,

Or the face behind it, trembling, unsure,

Hoping someone might notice the tremor,

Might see the fire smoldering beneath my skin?

I am the questions I ask in the dead of night,

The answers I chase in dreams and in dawn’s first light.

I am the child who still lingers,

Running barefoot through fields of wonder,

And the adult who wonders if she has lost him,

That wide-eyed spirit that once believed in magic.

Who am I, in the echo of another’s voice,

In the shadows of expectations

That cling like ivy to my ribs?

Am I the sum of all that I am told I must be,

Or the quiet defiance that rebels in my chest,

The stubborn insistence

That my soul will speak its truth,

Even if the world refuses to listen?

I am the poet of my own life,

The architect of dreams that teeter on fragile beams of hope.

I am the painter who spills colors across the canvas of my days,

Hoping someone, somewhere, will recognize a fragment of themselves in the hues.

I am the question without an easy answer,

The seeker wandering paths that twist and fold

Into forests of doubt and valleys of revelation.

Who am I, when love is offered like a delicate bloom,

And fear clutches my hands,

Afraid to hold, afraid to let go?

Am I the warmth that receives,

Or the frost that hides behind polite smiles,

Waiting for certainty that never comes?

I am the echo of every word I left unsaid,

The tremor of courage before it leaps,

The weight of silence before confession.

I am the music that hums beneath the noise,

The rhythm that keeps me moving forward

Even when the world tilts and spins too fast.

Who am I, when time etches lines on my skin,

When memories fade into mist,

And the world continues its relentless pace?

Am I the sum of moments lived,

Or the infinite within the fleeting,

The eternal spark that refuses to die,

Even when all else decays?

I am the dreamer who refuses to surrender,

The wanderer who knows no map,

The child who still believes in the impossible.

I am the heart that aches and mends,

The mind that questions and learns,

The spirit that dances in quiet defiance of despair.

Who am I, in the end, if not this?

A question, always,

A journey, forever unfinished,

A story written in fragments,

In the spaces between joy and sorrow,

In the breaths between fear and courage.

I am the mirror that reflects both light and shadow,

The voice that whispers,

The hand that reaches,

The eyes that search for truth

Even when truth is hidden beneath layers of doubt.

Who am I?

I am every heartbeat that has carried me here,

Every tear that has carved valleys of understanding,

Every laugh that has scattered stars in my soul.

I am the question and the answer,

The seeker and the found,

The lost and the discovering,

Forever becoming,

Forever echoing:

I am.