Delight Chilegide Olumati

In the art of losing self never forget to assume death—this is the first step.

How do you address someone who calls
himself a farmer without a farm?
How do you address ‘self’ without the will to be?

What is I?

I am tired of writing about being and self.
If you lose yourself in this search for answers,
what is left?

Is it the hollow echo of questions asked too late,
or the name someone else gave you?

What remains when the mirror forgets your face?
When the weight of existence slips through your grasp,
are you more than a shadow of what you were told to be?

In losing yourself, is there a chance to find?
To unearth something raw, untainted—
or does the void consume even that?

To lose yourself is not an end but a passage—
a question that demands living, not answering.

And if you find nothing?
Then maybe nothing is what you’ve always been,
and maybe, just maybe,
nothing is enough.