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There is something quietly terrifying about discovering who you are when no one is watching.

Who am I when I am not performing?

Not even secretly performing for some imagined audience within my own mind. Because even in solitude, there has always been a part of me that longs to be witnessed, a part that believes I must show the world what I am doing in order for it to feel real. As if my existence requires reflection to take shape. As if I only become someone once I am seen.

But that, too, is illusion.

And lately, in the absence of an audience, I have begun meeting myself in ways that surprise me. There is a depth that emerges when there is no one to impress, no identity to maintain, no image to curate. Just being. Raw, strange, unobserved being.

Yet modern life feels almost impossible to separate from performance. Everywhere, there is this subtle hunger to be validated, to feel interesting, authentic, different, worthy. I spent so long trying to disguise that desire within myself, trying to appear detached from approval while secretly aching for it. Wanting to be perceived. Wanting to matter.

And that is the difficult part: learning to distinguish between the self that simply is, and the self that needs to be acknowledged in order to feel real.

Because even when I am already being myself, another voice whispers: Show it. Prove it. Let someone witness it so it can exist.

There has always been this invisible architecture in my mind, this quiet compulsion to reveal myself to the world. To turn my inner life outward so I can believe in it more fully. But after months of stepping away from performance, from platforms, from constantly translating my existence into something visible, something unexpected has happened.

Certain parts of me have softened into silence.

Other parts have begun to bloom.

Some identities I once clung to so tightly, traits I believed were essential to who I was, have started dissolving without an audience to sustain them. And it is unsettling to realize how much of identity survives through repetition and recognition. Through being mirrored back to us.

Those parts are not gone. When I return to them, I still feel a kind of liberation, like reopening a hidden room inside myself. But I struggle to enter those spaces when there is no one else there to witness me enter.

And yet, within this solitude, there is also something sacred.

A bittersweetness. A cave-like stillness.

In the silence, forgotten fragments of myself have begun resurfacing, tender, hidden things that never needed applause to exist. Parts of me too intimate for performance. Parts that only emerge in private, in stillness, in the absence of display.

And now my inner world feels almost unbearably vast.

There are too many desires, too many fascinations, too many selves moving within me at once. Sometimes I do not even know where to place my attention. I feel overwhelmed by the sheer abundance of what I could become, what I love, what calls to me.

And maybe none of it is truly who I am.

Maybe identity itself is only a dance, shifting, temporary, luminous for a moment before dissolving again. Something both sublime and mundane. Eternal and fleeting at once.

Because the physical world cannot hold eternity.

But sometimes the soul catches glimpses of it.

Little recognitions.

Sacred echoes hidden inside ordinary things.

And perhaps that is what I keep searching for in every experience, extracting whatever trace of grace, beauty, or meaning I can carry with me. Trying to gather sukriti from each passing moment before it disappears back into silence.

you know when you cry watching their first preformance, your going to SOB YOUR EYES OUT WATCHING THEM AT STATE

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