The hardest thing I’ve ever had to struggle with is
trying to reconcile having a self that can’t be found,
no matter how clear I can read and understand it.
Something as simple as sitting in a chair, for
example, becomes very complex in this light,
and usually, I end up releasing whatever line of
inquiry I’ve used to try to understand simple
being, and end up asking myself the next natural
question like what is there to do when there is
nothing to do but become what I can’t know?
That logic usually makes me recline back
and put my feet up, assuming I have feet.
I’m reminded of a summer in college I was
reading the I Ching when the snow started to fall,
and I felt my mind replaced by that river of wet,
heavy whiteness, the flow of my awareness
parachuting to the ground of my being and
disappearing below it, only to return to the hot
July it came from. It was like I was snowing
because I wasn’t, is the closest I can come to
describing it. That was twenty something years ago.
But what is twenty years when words slide away
from themselves just as easily as watching a little
television can’t be determined as having happened,
without having never watched it before?
If you want to know what I think, I think we peruse
the internet on our tablets to identify where we
really are in hopes to return to a dark and formless
void with no pictures on the walls or curtains to
pull back, and I’m pretty sure we want to return to
this consciousness because some more natural part
of us has realized desire itself cannot be known for
what it most naturally is without realizing, that, like
us with our true faces always hanging in the air
behind our more screen-worthy ones, it cannot
happen without ceasing to exist.