What I Am

The question of "What am I?" stared at him for as long as he could remember. Amir stood before the mirror, his face half-covered by dimly lit shadows, filtering through his apartment which was cramped and cluttered. It was there that he stared into his face, worrying a furrow in his forehead in frustration to dig answers that seemed to slip between his fingers, once again.

Now, that Amir is 35 years old, the story in his life has been a continuous fight. All through his life, he has been fighting hard to define himself because the world is putting labels on him. Born into a lowly neighborhood, his parents had taught him that he was liable to duty: he should work hard and make a distinction for himself by surpassing his circumstances. However, now as he gazes deep into his eyes, all he finds is a lost man.

His days were spent juggling a succession of jobs that barely made ends. In the mornings, he walked through chaotic streets delivery packages throughout the city. Afternoons meant changing into his rather worn uniform to manage the stockroom of a local electronics store. And by night, tired but sleepless, he'd spend hours on freelance portals trying to pick up odd writing gigs that paid little but kept him busy. Each one felt like a mask he had been donning, none of them actually close to the person he really was.

Amir had dreams once. Big dreams. This has always been a child's dream—a painter to pour his soul onto the canvas and be understood in the brushstrokes. But all that would fade as the harsh realities of life set in. Expectations of the family, society, survival, and so on weighed upon him, and he shunned it all for stability. The bright colors of his childhood fantasies faded over the years into a gray, interminable routine from which he wasn't quite clear what, in truth, he was.

It was that evening, too, when what had been a really exhausting day made Amir wander aimlessly along the city streets; the smell of rain clung densely in the air, and the streets were wet gloss beneath the glow of streetlights. He passed by bustling cafes, whose windows steamed due to the warmth inside, and stood in front of an art gallery. He looked through the glass at paintings adorning the walls: bright, abstract pieces did something deep within him. Not thinking, he pushed open the door and entered.

The gallery was almost empty, with only a few patrons quietly admiring the artwork. Amir strolled through the room, his eyes passing from one painting to the next. They were bold, having no qualms about existing. Some were chaotic splashes of color, splattering everything in their vicinity; others are just calm, serene landscapes that hardly produce any noise at all. What really caught Amir's attention, though, was the stark emotion pouring out from every single piece. He felt that the artists poured part of their soul into work, every stroke a declaration of "This is who I am."

That was where Amir stopped in front of what looked like a very vivid painting, with that stormy dark swirling within. Right there, for one moment, the heaviness of duties, stressors of jobs, and questioning of what he was all melted away; there existed just the art and the honest truth it said.

A voice cut into his thoughts. "Beautiful, isn't it?" an older man said, strolling alongside him. He was the owner of the gallery, his sharp eyes scrutinizing Amir like a subject under microscope.

"Yes," Amir whispered almost inaudibly. "It feels. alive."

The man nodded. "Art has a way of speaking to us when we are ready to listen. It shows us parts of ourselves we so often ignore."

Amir gulped hard, his throat constricting around a knot that had begun forming in his throat. "I used to paint," he said softly, the words awkward as they tumbled off his tongue. "But I quit a long time ago."

"Why?" the man inquired, never glancing away.

Amir swallowed; he didn't know where to start to begin to untangle himself over the complexities of life, the sacrifices that must be made, the fear of failure. "I didn't think I'd be any good," Amir admitted. "Life got in the way.".

The gallery owner smiled lightly. "Life gets in the way, always. Doesn't mean you stop creating. It isn't whether you're good enough. It's whether you're going to be honest.".

For all his purposes, these words hit Amir like the bolt of lightning. For so long, he had fought to fit into roles that never defined him. He had sought validation from a world that didn't understand the turmoil inside of him. But the truth was far simpler than that: he had been running from himself, afraid to face who he really was.

That night, Amir returned home full of clarity he hadn't felt for years. He reached into the top-most corner of his closet and pulled out a dusty box somewhat covered in sheets. Its contents included a set of paintbrushes and a stack of unused canvases. His hands were shivering as he set up his makeshift studio at the corner of his apartment; the familiar smell of paint filled the room.

He poured those radiant colors onto the brush and across the white paper. And with that first stroke, he felt the weight of his shoulders ease off. Each stroke was reclaiming his identity, reminding him that he was more than the burdens he had lugged on his back for all those years-the delivery driver, the stockroom clerk, the freelancer. He was an artist. He was a creator. He was Amir.

And as the paint started to build into shapes and images, Amir realized that "What am I?" was not something he needed to find but something he needed to make.