Exposure 2

For reasons of which the correctness and completeness may be, and are doubted, comments left upon the previous post encourage me to try and explain some things.
For many a years this soul has had this state of uncertainty and only in the past few months has it had the chance to approach itself with less fear; thus you may see it now, as more honest and truthful to those close to him. He has feared the exposure of the depth of his mind and feelings for over ten years at the least.
While reading Exposure, you might have noticed, and it was noticed, that there was the use of many “I”s; thus an important question arose : Who is “I”?
The question might come in contrast to another question, more frequently asked: Who am I? The latter asked by “I”, while one may definitely question of who is asking “Who is “I”?”
“I” is scared, fearful, ashamed, angry, and a lot lot more, and in Exposure it is “I” trying to solve the problem of his shame and fear, he is seeking an answer to his question, in hope of decreasing his fright, anger, shame, and pain, or maybe getting rid of it all, to live happily, secure with bravery, tender feelings and no pain.
Yet again, who is “I”?
Without doubt the question “Who am I?” is asked by I, so the first question free of “I” is “Who is “I”?”. Other questions, also free of “I” and maybe somewhat prior to the afore mentioned are: What is fear? What is shame? What is anger?

Exposure

Do I really have anything to say or am I just wasting my time here?

I don't want to answer this question. The truth is that what ever the answer, I am nearly always unsure of what to do; which might arise from the fact that I am unsure of what I want.

I have got, to change the way I live. My real concern is with what I want, and I try all sort of stuff and I sometimes runaway trying to hide from the fact that I am unsure, that I am lost. Some things appear important to me while others I wonder of their importance and I can't associate to both at the same time and so I feel wasted, I feel unworthy of the chances I have.

I feel frightened sometimes that I may lose what I am yet I am unsure if what I am is real. Is all the stuff that have become associated to me through the pressures of life, and have become my belongings, those I care most for, fake? If I lose the respected, well known, talented, and graceful personality I have, will anything really change; yet when I look at myself, or rather at the things I do, or more deeply at the things that drive me to what I do, I see not a many things worthy of respect or fame; I do see talent, but I see it wasting and that scares me. Do I live to be respected? What is it that I want?

Do I long for peace of mind, for the tranquil moments of freedom, from all that scares me? It seems that this state of freedom, is rather better phrased as security. I want to be safe. What is it that I want to be safe from? What is it that is attacking my whole being all the time? Why and what of am I so afraid of? Am I afraid of losing myself, of losing the many things that have become part of me over time? Is it death that I fear so much? Is it real death that I fear or is it the state of losing my self, my mind maybe that scares me? I am sure that I am scared, yet not so sure of what is scaring me. I am afraid of losing Ali. I am scared that a time might come or that some curtain will fall and some other, different Ali, less respectful, known, and talented will be exposed upon the world. But which is the real Ali? The one quivering of fear or the one behind the curtain? Is there a third Ali? Yes, there is a third Ali, one that is the most talented, most praised being of the world, and he is what I long for. He is what I think I should be, he is what I show the world of myself, resulting in the fear that the curtain might fall, and I might be exposed naked, without any mask to protect me from the poisonous eyes of the world. Yes, this is it. I long to be the best, the most talented, respected, praised ever, but I am not, and that is what scares me, what drives me to security. I am not the best, most talented, respected, famous, and praised being of the world, yet that is truly what I wish for the world to recognize of me. So there is me, as I am which in fact I am unsure if I truly know how I am, and there is this Ali, up there, where no one can touch, or rather where no one should touch, being torn apart, by the fact that he is less than what he longs to be. Ali is a mere illusion, since one can not be perfect, untouchable from the harms and imperfections aroused by nature and the fact of being human. So there is no perfect Ali, in fact there can not be any perfect Ali, and the perfect, unreachable Ali is just an illusion, a mere childly play of the mind, imagining to be more; but there is an Ali, one who breathes, walks on the earth, thinks, and does many a things; that Ali is human, and that is all.

I am only human. I shall not feel ashamed of not being something that is impossible to be.