.

You see the self is a strange thing — shapeless, formless.

When unobserved, I am neither this nor that.

Just a possibility. Just movement.

You see me — and I become.

When I say the self is shapeless, I don’t mean it’s vague or mystical.

I mean it literally has no fixed contour.

It doesn’t wake up with a résumé of identities.

It doesn't say, “I am someone’s son,” or “I am anxious today,” unless something —

a memory, a gaze, a role — pulls it into being.

Think of water before it’s poured into a cup.

It doesn't resist being anything.

But the moment you place it somewhere, it fits the boundary you give it —

just like the self fits the story it is seen through.

To be formless doesn’t mean vague or spiritual.

It means: there is no edge to you.

You aren’t confined to a single definition — gender, age, personality, history, success, failure, trauma, or even love.

You are not fixed to one face in the mirror.

You don’t belong to your moods.

The self, before it gets “dressed” in thoughts and identity, is like wind.

Not because it moves, but because it is not containable.

It doesn’t hold a single posture.

Today you may feel full of courage.

Tomorrow, quiet like a prayer.

That doesn’t make you inconsistent.

That reveals your nature: not broken… but fluid.

The formless is not absence.

It is freedom from any one form.

Not a boy, not a girl, not a thinker, not a sufferer, not even a seeker.

All of those are temporary clothes the formless wears when life asks it to show up.

But underneath?

Stillness.

Not an empty kind — but a pure, alert stillness.

Not trying to be something.

Not fighting to undo the past.

Not clinging to a future image.

Just... here.

Without explanation.

Now let’s go one layer deeper.

Before you are seen — truly, seen — by another’s eyes, or even your own thoughts,

you are undisturbed potential.

A formless awareness.

Like light not yet reflected.

Like a wave that hasn’t decided which direction to crash.

In that state, nothing has been assigned to you.

You are not “good” or “bad.”

You are not “kind” or “distant.”

You are not even “you.”

You are… before the you.

But the moment another gaze falls on you,

or the moment your own mind labels you —

you crystallize.

You begin to exist in a form.

And this is the strange burden of being human:

we never really meet ourselves in raw form.

We meet our reflections.

Our versions.

What the world needs from us,

what memory expects from us,

what fear avoids and what love protects.

You become a person. A story. A pattern.

You become “me.”

And that “me” is not a lie — but it is not the whole.

Now read that line again:

You see me — and I become.

Who is the “you”?

It could be the world.

It could be your mother.

Your lover.

Your fears.

Even your own desperate need to know yourself.

But here’s the something:

Who you become is always shaped by who is seeing.

Their gaze becomes your mirror.

And in that mirror, you adjust. You shrink. You stretch. You perform.

To know that who we are is always unfinished,

Always being sculpted by the eyes that fall upon us,

By the names we are given,

By the expectations we wear like second skin.

No one sees the self in its raw silence —

not because it hides,

But because it has nothing to show

Until it is asked to appear.

So we live not as a fixed being,

But as a response.

A reflection.

A shape borrowed from the moment.

And behind all the becoming,

There is still that quiet field of no-shape, no-name

The place untouched by memory, untouched by image,

Where you are not this or that, - NETI NETI

But just… awake. - THAT THOU ART