How am I not myself?
I am not myself when I let this moment slip away without being here. Being now. Or now.
Where am I?
Elsewhere upstairs where reality fades and a new language divorces me from myself.
I am not myself when I am elsewhere.
Away from this moment. Away from my breath and my body and living in my mind. I have ceased to be me, when the me I thought I knew has taken a trip far far away. The me I become is a construct of mind, speaking in a language I don’t recognize. Do I want to live here where the dinner conversation is fractured at best?
A moment, waiting to be enjoyed and missed because of my troubled mind. The yearning for something that is not and the rejection of what is. I know little. What I do know is true. Truth reveals itself to me when I don’t need it. Fleeting moments of awareness and action spring forward and open me to the inspiration that is everywhere, all the time. I am not open to it when my distractions live with me.
Nature is mother. When I detach from me and mother becomes other, I am dislocated. When I breathe the sea air and hear its song, that is reality. When the me I thought I was turns on the radio, the me that is here goes upstairs into the unreality of intellect and politics. To live here means the death of now. They murder me and dampen the sound of quiet joy. The me I want sometimes forgets the words to a song that I once knew. But I’m learning it again. The People Doing Very Important Things All the Time tell me that the body serves the mind. But the children tell me that it’s the other way around.
I am you and you are me. I can only know me through you. You and I make three.
We are not alone when we are here. I can only be me when I surrender to this moment that we’ve shared. At times painful, but always fair.
When everything has a home, I am home. When I am aware of this, the moment is gone, waiting to be re-discovered. My limited grasp of perfection slips under my feet like a shadow. Acceptance of me allows myself to simply be.