who am i, really? what does it even mean to be? this question haunts me at the oddest moments, like when i wake up and feel like i’m slipping back into myself after a night of dreams.ontology - the study of existence itself. and the more i think about it, the stranger it gets. am I just a body? a mind? a collection of thoughts and memories? if i lost all my memories tomorrow, would i still be me? where do i end and someone else begins? descartes would probably comfort me with his famous “cogito, ergo sum” - i think, therefore i am. at least my thinking proves I exist… but what am i beyond that? heidegger, on the other hand, would remind me that being is more than just thinking—it’s about being-in-the-world (dasein). we aren’t isolated minds floating in space; we exist through our interactions, our choices, our relationships. But that only makes things messier. if my being is shaped by the world around me, does that mean i’m constantly shifting, never fully defined? sartre would say yes. he believed existence precedes essence - we exist first, and then we create who we are through our actions. no predetermined self, no essential “me” waiting to be discovered. it’s both terrifying and freeing. terrifying, because there’s no solid ground to stand on. freeing, because it means i get to decide who i become. and then there’s plato, who might just laugh at all of this and tell me that the real me exists somewhere beyond this material world, in the realm of forms - an ideal version of myself that i can only catch glimpses of. but what if there is no ideal me? what if all i have is this flawed, ever-changing version, caught between what i was and what i will be? the truth is, i don’t have an answer. maybe that’s the point. maybe ontology isn’t about solving the mystery of existence but learning to live with it. for now, i exist. and maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.