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.