Sometimes I stand at the window of my house and watch the river.
It flows past every day. Quietly, persistently, without asking anyone for permission.
In front of the house people sit by the water.
Someone plays guitar.
Someone reads a book.
Someone eats ice cream.
They seem perfectly content doing absolutely nothing remarkable.
Just sitting there. Existing.
And every now and then, while watching them, a thought appears that has been following me for most of my life.
Who am I?
I remember asking the same question as a child.
I was standing next to my grandmother at the bakery counter. Strawberry cake and vanilla pastries were neatly lined up behind the glass.
A very serious situation, if you ask me.
And suddenly, in the middle of all that pastry-related decision making, a strange thought appeared.
Who am I?
Not my name.
Not my age.
But this strange awareness that I was here at all.
Looking at cakes.
Standing next to my grandmother.
Being alive.
As a child the question felt unsettling.
Almost like the ground had shifted slightly under my feet.
Now it feels different.
Now it mostly feels like curiosity.
Sometimes when I look out at the river I wonder if I am simply the person who exists in this exact moment.
The person who is breathing right now.
The person standing here watching people eat ice cream by the water.
Or if I am the person I slowly became over time.
The child at the bakery counter.
The teenager wandering through Europe with a camera.
The adult trying to build things that feel meaningful.
Am I the present moment.
Or the long path that led here.
The river outside seems to have its own opinion about that.
Every second new water passes by.
And yet we still call it the same river.
Perhaps we are something like that too.
Always moving.
Always changing.
And still somehow recognizably ourselves.
Maybe the question “Who am I?” does not need a final answer.
Maybe it is simply one of those quiet moments where life becomes aware of itself.
You look out of the window.
You hear a guitar somewhere by the water.
You notice people enjoying a summer evening.
And suddenly it occurs to you that you are part of it all.
Here.
Breathing.
Watching.
Existing.
Which is, when you think about it, already quite remarkable.
The river outside keeps flowing past the house,
apparently completely unbothered by questions of identity.
Perhaps it knows something we don’t.
