What Am I?

What is this insistent I and possessive my
that seem to control my life?
It is called myself or ego,
but cannot be seen
in brain, bone, muscle or blood,
though it may be touched
by response or emotional involvement.

And where is this I located
that it retains significant portions of the past,
attention spans
that moot out the passing of time?

Or we may ask:
where, indeed, is memory kept?
Is it the I that keeps fresh the blossoms of time
the eye collects?

Although I is also an object indirectly seen,
experienced in my acts and emotions
like the unseen wind
whose patterns can be measured and tracked.

This I sees the I in others.

Not in bones or cells, but face, eyes, postures taken:
any anger, fear,
or signs of positive acceptance.

Such things I knows and is author of what is remembered,
but itself is hidden
in a mystery of pain and hunger
and the same made well.

I sees every I as another
and can come to know it in person
through a book or song.
There is nothing so hidden about an I
other I’s can’t see.

But each I fails to know itself
and cannot see
except as revealed by another
where sex, race, age and size
may well pertain.

But such knowing an I can change
or may be torn down.
Such is the consequence of knowing.