Every time I think a thought, the self refreshes itself like a website refreshing itself when I hit the Refresh button. When thoughts peter out to occasional wisps, the self drifts off into scattered clouds, and the spacious, clear blue sky can be seen.
Thoughts are often self-referential, which is to say, i'm often talking to myself about myself, not unlike James Joyce's character, Mr. Duffy, who lived a short distance from his body.
Outdoors, in the garden is a good place for thoughts to drift away. Suddenly, there's just a body walking on a path to the vegetable garden. Hmmm. I wonder who she is. A coalescing of very familiar habits, including mental habits.
What? I silently ask.
There is no who.
There is no how of how this happened.
There is no where—only here. Here and here and here without a there, without a where.
There is no when—only now. Now and now and now without a then, without a when.
I suppose there is no what either, but that interrogative will have to suffice for the moment, this present moment, only moment.
For the what has no that, no that-ness. Only this without a that.
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