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.