The circus of Self: The hilariously serious quest for ‘who am I?’

“Know thyself!” The ancient edict echoes through misty meditation halls, hums from the well-thumbed self-help books, and floats on the sandalwood haze of earnest spiritual gatherings.

For aeons, sages and seekers, poets and philosophers have tangoed with existence’s most slippery conundrum: “Who am I?” We, the confused wanderers, have our introspective moments too. We peer into the mirror and meet the startled gaze of a stranger. A quiet gasp. We squint, wondering, “Who is this lost soul staring back?”

So, in the grand tradition of navel-gazing, we fold our legs, close our eyes, and turn the flashlight inwards, searching for the elusive tenant of our inner sanctum. What greets us? Not a sovereign on a velvet throne but backstage bedlam: gears grinding, wires tangled like yesterday’s noodles, and funhouse mirrors reflecting our face in gloriously funny shapes.

Our noble pursuit is soon waylaid by the mundane. Our stomach growls; we become hunger. A leg cramp strikes; we are pain incarnate. A match win remembered; now we are pride manifest. A creeping thought of an overdue bill—now we become anxiety. The flashlight flickers. The peekaboo game stalls—until the next existential itch calls us back.

The Grand Identity Buffet

The sages sing: no man ever steps in the same river twice. Modern neuroscience nods along—our brains are ever-rewiring, our stories of self perpetually in flux. So, which ‘I’ shall we raise a toast to? Yesterday’s fading sketch? Today’s unfinished doodle? Or tomorrow’s blank page?

The self is a shape-shifting mosaic—woven from recollections, rainbow-tinged dreams, and a dollop of self-deception. It’s not a noun but a verb in motion. A waterfall tumbling through whims, hormones, recollections, and emotions. Each new interaction, each book read, each experience, each late-night epiphany, each new wrinkle—all conspire to remix the playlist of who we are.

Multiple Selves, One Roof

Inside the boarding house of our mind, a riotous troupe thrives. There’s our private self in pyjamas, the ambitious self in rainbow-tinged dreams, the filtered social media self, the carefree self singing off-key in the shower. Add to this the Monday morning gladiator on the one hand and the Wednesday night couch burrito on the other. One day, we are a creative genius; the next day, a knot of worry. Our job-interview persona is a distant cousin to the one lost in the hypnotic glow of Netflix.

Not to forget the chameleon collection of curated roles we play for different audiences. The witty friend, the diligent employee, the crisis resolver, the ardent suitor, and so on. We adorn our identities like clowns in flamboyant wigs and polka-dotted suits, endlessly adapting to the world’s shifting script. We try therapy. Boom! We discover we’re both the hero and the villain of our own crazy epic.

Which one out of all these is real? All? None? Please pass the existential popcorn. This is definitely a good show to watch!

A Wild Goose Chase

Each time we think we’ve cornered the real “I”, it sneaks out the back door giggling, and another version bursts in through the front door, honking a rubber horn. We are left juggling facets of a jewel whose full brilliance we can’t glimpse. Each attempt to grasp who we are reveals another layer of complexity rather than the clarity we crave.

We chase the self like a balloon in a gusty wind, tripping over our own revelations. The pursuit becomes a never-ending game of hide-and-seek with our inner child, who darts about, waving pinwheels of mischief and teasing us, “You aren’t getting any warmer!” Searching our “I” is a wild goose chase.

And herein lies the cosmic jest: the ‘I’ that seeks is the very ‘I’ that is sought. A metaphorical ouroboros. A genius of an ontological dog chasing its own tail. Introspection may yield profound insights, but expecting a triumphant “Aha! That’s me!” is like waiting for Godot—eternally hopeful, yet eternally waiting.

Waiting for Godot

To decode the self is to play detective, suspect, witness, and jury, all at once. We become a metaphorical clown, rummaging through oversized trousers, pulling out an endless cascade of handkerchiefs. Each one is a version of us—the starry-eyed child, the rebellious teen, the awkward party guest. We yank off our wig only to find another beneath it, then another, and another, in a desperate attempt to find the real “I” underneath. We are left standing amid a pile of discarded selves, no closer to the final reveal. The self is an onion. Every peeled layer reveals another and another, until all we’re left with are teary eyes and a kitchen full of philosophical mess.

And herein lies the cosmic jest: the “I” that seeks is the very “I” that is sought. A metaphorical ouroboros (an ancient symbol of a serpent or dragon eating its own tail). A genius of an ontological dog chasing its own tail. Introspection may yield profound insights, but expecting a triumphant “Aha! That’s me!” is like waiting for Godot—eternally hopeful, yet eternally waiting.

A Sisyphean Task

Picture billions of souls roaming on this spinning rock in space, convinced there’s a self to decipher, yet baffled by what it might be. We are all stars in this cosmic sitcom, the plot ever-twisting, the director unknown.

Philosophers chant, “Know thyself!” Clowns whisper, “Watch your step.” Both are right, though the philosophers forget the banana peel. In this hilarious disarray, we realise our attempts to understand ourselves are a Sisyphean task, rolling the boulder of identity uphill, only to watch it tumble back into the valley of mystery. A noble futility. The self is a puzzle with pieces that don’t quite fit.

Spiritual Takes on the Self

Philosophers and mystics offer their own takes on the self conundrum.

David Hume, peering inwards, found no fixed self, only a bundle of fleeting perceptions, thoughts, and sensations drifting like incense smoke. “Nobody’s home,” he shrugged.

Immanuel Kant offered a two-for-one deal. The phenomenal self is how we perceive ourselves through our senses. The noumenal self is our true essence beyond our understanding or sensory experience.

Hinduism considers the self (Atman) as one with Brahman, the ultimate reality. Realisation of this oneness is liberation. We’re not a drop in the ocean but the ocean itself, playing at being a drop for laughs. The phrase “I am that” signifies that the individual “I” is a ripple of a boundless ocean—not a separate being but an expression of Brahman.

Buddhism, ever the minimalist, denies the existence of a lasting self altogether. We exist as a complex, dynamic interplay of form, feeling, perception, mental formations, and consciousness. The Buddha likened it to a chariot: dismantle its wheels, axle, and frame, and where’s the chariot? Poof! Gone. A magic trick. The self too vanishes when its parts are named. Realising the self’s illusory nature is liberation.

So, what’s the final word on the self? We are Hume’s drifting bundle of perceptions, Kant’s unfathomable noumenon, Hinduism’s Brahman, and the Buddha’s dismantled chariot—all at once and none exclusively. Perhaps the self was never meant to be understood in the same way as other things. To demand a single, final answer is to miss the beauty of the masterpiece that we are.

Know Thy Oops!

We are a fleeting stardust audaciously asking the void, “Who am I? Who dreamt me up?” And yet, if our self remains a mystery, it’s no bug but life’s most elegant feature. It’s life’s grand improvisation, a circus designed to surprise, tease, and delight. To pin the self down would be to dim its magic, trading a wondrous lifescape for a monotonous script. Perfect answers don’t exist—and that’s the best part of the ride.

The self isn’t a fortress to be mapped but a carnival to wander. A riot of pratfalls and epiphanies, mirth and marvels. So instead of solemnly searching for our true “I”, we might bow to the absurd and let the mystery serenade us. The ancient counsel “know thyself” could give way to something softer, wiser: “know thy oops”.

The Ghost in the Machine

So, what’s the final word on the self? We are Hume’s drifting bundle of perceptions, Kant’s unfathomable noumenon, Hinduism’s Brahman, and the Buddha’s dismantled chariot—all at once and none exclusively. Perhaps the self was never meant to be understood like other things. To demand a single, final answer is to miss the beauty of the masterpiece that we are.

When we realise that the self is ultimately unknowable, we are freed from the tyranny of finding it—no longer prisoners of definition. In that wild, winking unknowing, we see not defeat but the purest, most intoxicating poetry of being impossibly human. We are the answer that is also the question. We are the sage who is also a joker, leaping through existence’s hoops, tripping with glee, and revelling in the farce of it all.

The ghost in the machine? Exorcised—with a tickle and a bow! On this note, let the curtain fall. Not with any solemn resolution, but with confetti showers to celebrate the mystery that keeps the show eternally fresh and riveting!

Also read P.S. Wasu’s previous article on Lotus: https://alotusinthemud.com/the-balmy-ache-of-lives-not-lived/