Who I Am: A Modern Mantra of “I Am That I Am”

When Moses asked the Divine for a name, the answer was:

“I Am That I Am.” — Exodus 3:14

Ramana Maharshi called this the pinnacle of mystical understanding — the recognition that the pure “I am” is not a thought, not a role, not an identity, but the very essence of Being itself.

The Score’s Who I Am feels like a modern mantra of this truth.
It does not offer a sanitized version of the self but names every contradiction — saint and sinner, cure and fever, real and pretender — and then stands unashamed in the middle of it all, saying:

“That’s who I am.”

This is not rebellion for its own sake — it is the liberation that comes when the war against oneself is over.
It is the moment when shame dies, hunger is kept alive, and the soul refuses to sell itself for approval.

Verse 1

I'm a saint, and I'm a sinner
I'm a loser and a winner
Without faith and a believer
I am true and the deceiver
I'm a hero and a villain
I'm a myth, and I'm a legend
Without strength and a contender
I am real and the pretender

This opening verse is a litany of paradoxes — a mantra-like catalog that dissolves identity into pure “I Am.”

“Saint and sinner, loser and winner”
Here the song refuses to pick a mask. It does not try to be purely holy or purely fallen — it includes both.
This is Ramana Maharshi’s point: the “I” that sees itself as saint or sinner is the same witnessing consciousness.
“Without faith and a believer”
The Self is prior to belief. Faith and doubt are both states of mind, ripples on the same still lake.
“True and the deceiver”
This is the most radical line — owning the fact that we deceive ourselves and others at times, but still claiming “I am.”
This is a tantric gesture: nothing is exiled, nothing is disowned.
“Hero and villain, myth and legend”
These are the archetypes we play in the world. The Self wears them like costumes but is not confined to them.
“Without strength and a contender”
The paradox continues — weak and strong, defeated and fighting, both states are allowed to coexist.
“I am real and the pretender”
This line is the final turn of the screw: even our “authentic self” and our “persona” are part of the same play.
What we are is beyond both — the silent witness.

This verse feels like a spiritual inventory — not to judge or purify but to include.
It is a radical “yes” to every polarity, until only the witnessing presence remains — the pure “I am” that cannot be defined but can be felt in the marrow.

Chorus

I have my flaws
I make mistakes
But I'm myself
I'm not ashamed
That's who I am, oh
That's who I am, oh
That's who I am, oh
I have my doubts
I lose my strength
Sometimes I fall, but I don't break
That's who I am, oh
That's who I am, oh
That's who I am, oh

This chorus is where the song’s mystical depth fully blossoms. It is no longer just naming opposites — it is blessing them.

“I have my flaws / I make mistakes”
The seeker stops hiding from imperfection.
The Kaula way is not about becoming flawless but about realizing that even flaws are part of the whole — they too are Devi’s play.
“But I’m myself / I’m not ashamed”
Here is the great liberation: shame dissolves.
The ego may still have rough edges, but the heart stands open, unafraid to be seen.
“That’s who I am” (repeated)
Every repetition is like a mantra — hammering the truth into the body.
It is not a defensive cry but a peaceful roar: this is me, in wholeness, not in fragments.
“I have my doubts / I lose my strength”
Even weakness and uncertainty are included — they no longer disqualify the seeker from standing in the light.
“Sometimes I fall, but I don’t break”
This is resilience in its purest mystical form.
The fall is part of the path, not a failure.
What cannot break is the witnessing Self — the “I Am” that remains untouched even as the surface self stumbles.

This chorus is a celebration of sahaja — the natural state Ramana spoke of — where one is no longer burdened by the need to perform spiritual perfection.
It is the song of one who has returned home, wounds and all, and is willing to stand in the middle of life saying:

“Yes — this is who I am.”

Verse 2

I'm a poet and a soldier
I am young and growing older
Without hope, but I'm a dreamer
I'm the cure, and I'm the fever
I am lost with a direction
I am failure and perfection
Without grace, but I am tired
Of walking life like it's a wire

This verse feels like the core confession of the seeker — more intimate than Verse 1, more embodied than the chorus.

“Poet and soldier”
These two roles represent the paradox of the spiritual path: tenderness and discipline, inspiration and duty.
The seeker recognizes both in themselves — the ability to sing and the willingness to fight.
“Young and growing older”
Time itself becomes part of the song.
The seeker stands between the freshness of youth and the weight of mortality, watching both unfold.
“Without hope, but I’m a dreamer”
This is a beautiful paradox: ordinary hope has been burned away — no more waiting for someone to rescue them — but the power to dream still remains.
This is the shift from passive optimism to creative vision.
“I’m the cure, and I’m the fever”
The seeker sees that they are both the wound and the medicine, both bondage and liberation.
This is a deeply tantric insight: nothing outside you is coming to save you — you are your own cure.
“Lost with a direction”
Perhaps the most mystical line in the whole song:
it acknowledges the surface-level feeling of lostness but also hints at a deeper current carrying everything toward the goal.
This is the paradoxical state of grace, where guidance is hidden but real.
“Failure and perfection”
These are no longer opposites — they are two faces of the same coin, both included in the totality of being.
“Without grace, but I am tired of walking life like it’s a wire”
This is the exhaustion that often precedes awakening.
The seeker is tired of balancing, of performing, of pretending to be flawless.
It is a cry for release — and in mystical traditions, this very tiredness is often the moment when grace finally floods in.

Bridge

I don't want to be someone else
I don't ever want to lose this hunger
Never gonna try to change myself, oh
When everybody's got their soul on sale
I don't want to be just a number
Never gonna try to change myself, oh, oh, oh

The bridge is no longer confession — it is rebellion, fierce and liberating.

“I don’t want to be someone else”
This is the culmination of the whole song: the end of comparison, envy, and the chase to become what others demand.
It is the realization that authenticity is not negotiable.
“I don’t ever want to lose this hunger”
The hunger here is not for approval but for truth — the mumukṣutva, the burning desire for liberation.
The seeker vows to keep this fire alive, no matter how the world tries to cool it down.
“Never gonna try to change myself”
This is not laziness or self-indulgence — it is the refusal to engage in false self-improvement projects that only reinforce the mask.
True transformation now comes from grace, not from neurotic striving.
“When everybody’s got their soul on sale”
A sharp critique of a world that trades authenticity for approval, spirit for currency, depth for convenience.
This line feels prophetic — it names the price of staying awake when the collective prefers sleep.
“I don’t want to be just a number”
This is a refusal to be reduced to data, to utility, to a cog in a machine.
It is a cry for sacred individuality — the same current that runs through every mystic who has ever stepped out of the herd.

The bridge transforms the song from self-acceptance into active defiance — a vow to stay true, to keep the soul unsold, and to resist every pressure to become a shadow of oneself.

Final Chorus

I have my flaws
I make mistakes
But I'm myself
I'm not ashamed
That's who I am, oh
That's who I am, oh
That's who I am, oh
I have my doubts
I lose my strength
Sometimes I fall, but I don't break
That's who I am, oh
That's who I am, oh
That's who I am, oh

When the chorus returns after the bridge, it no longer feels like mere self-description — it feels like initiation.

Every flaw, every mistake, every fall has been named, seen, blessed.
The hunger has been claimed, the soul has been taken off the market, the vow of authenticity sealed.

This repetition is no longer defensive but radiant:
This is me — whole, unashamed, untamed.

Each “that’s who I am” lands like the strike of a temple bell — affirming the Self, driving the recognition deeper until it becomes unshakable.

Conclusion

Who I Am is a hymn of wholeness.
It begins by naming every contradiction — saint and sinner, cure and fever — and ends in the stillness of fearless acceptance: I am that I am.

This is the very pinnacle of mystical insight that Ramana Maharshi pointed to:
not running from the shadow, not polishing the ego, but standing in the fire until both light and dark are seen as masks on the same Face.

To sing this song with your whole being is to stop bargaining with life.
It is to stand barefoot in the center of the smashan and say: