Every morning eyes open and I appear, slowly awakening from the blackness and somehow there is continuity. The story of me, being told and lived, simultaneously.
Every cell is different from seven years ago so how can I be the same, or even know I am? How can past worries be consigned to memory when the ones here now seem so real?
How do l I own some actions: the prizes and the pratfalls, but not others: the walking or the sitting? Am I only the ‘decided’ or also the ‘involuntary’? Is there a distinction?
Do I own my thoughts or are they pounding on my head like raindrops? Do I own my feelings or are they wafting through my consciousness like smells?
Am I the stillness or the movement, or am I both? Am I the face in the mirror or the openness inside? Where’s the dividing line, the edge of my body, or the edge of my view?
Am I everything or nothing? What if me is just the story? The story used to function. What if there’s only this: happening, and then: that, and then: something else.
Sometimes I see motes of light, floating in the corner of my view. They remind me that strange things happen that anything is possible.