I am _____.
A canvas so blank it makes your chest tight.
The cursor blinking after those two words,
waiting for definition that never comes easily.
We panic at the emptiness.
Rush to fill the void with labels,
with boxes that feel too small,
with answers that change by Thursday.
But what if the terror is also the gift?
What if being undefined means being unlimited?
What if the blankness isn't broken— it's possibility itself?
The question haunts us beautifully.
It pulls us deeper,
past the surface answers,
past what we think we should be,
into the mystery of what we actually are.
And in that seeking,
in that honest wrestling,
we find something better than certainty:
We find truth worth sharing.
We find purpose in the pursuit itself.
We find that knowing ourselves
is less about the answer
and more about the courage to keep asking.
So let the canvas stay blank a little longer.
Let the question linger.
Let yourself be undefined.
Because the answer matters too much
to rush into the wrong one.
The right words will come
when you've done the work,
when you've sat with the silence,
when you've earned the knowing.
Until then,
there’s strange beauty
in the waiting itself.
The question is too important to answer carelessly.
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