Self and Illusion

I am nothing more than a loose binding of chance, illusion, and distance.

The effect of the "I" is felt in retrospect. A flicker, an echo, a whisper.

To others I am nothing more than a snapshot.

To myself the "I" is my most gently held illusion. I do not exist in reality. I dance each day between the loose sewing of my "I" and the inevitable unravel.

I notice patterns in my actions, my thoughts, and my perspective of my world. If I had been born in the Middle East, my thoughts would be radically different. My actions would be radically different. My perspective would be radically different.

This "David" I know would not be. My self, the genesis of my habits, is an illusion sewn by chance, illusion, and distance.

To what extent should I trust something haphazardly composed?

If I must see clearly to do no harm, can I see clearly through my self? Any attempt so far has felt tainted. Any attempt so far has felt gross.

Nothing in this life is mine. Each thing is an impossible gift. This includes the self that makes life sustainable, the thing that makes my contributions possible.

I am something, but I own absolutely nothing. I am something, but I am nothing.

To unsew the self is the foundation of love.

It is to willingly become a ghost in one's own mind. To not be here, but to be somewhere. To exist behind a veil but perceive in full fidelity.

Simply, it is the surrender of everything to nothing.

One must dutifully unsew the self with joy daily. The unknowable and the real undisturbed.

Like two close friends, I must not hear more than a whisper in their conversation.