Absence of Self

Faint lines glow on other faint lines, crossing and canceling. The same surface touches the ground thousands of times, and it still changes with time. Many things are more than they seem, and unfortunately, many things are also less than they seem. The strength, grace, and power of a lion in a man not quite an adult, who you would never look at twice. A pond so small and shallow it can only rival a puddle in a wonderfully beautiful, strong looking woman. If I fall asleep now, I will not wake up later, not truly, but of course the thought does not bother me now: it will only bother me later, when I wish I didn’t fall asleep. Hate that is deep and strong makes me feel superficial and strange. Love that is deep and powerful makes me feel wonderful, like there is no need to hate, not when I have such passion. I’d say I miss the earthquakes but I barely remember them, and they were not startling, not scary. I’m not scared when I go insane: quite the opposite. Going insane is a wonderful, relieving feeling that I don’t have to pretend anymore, don’t have to be fake and silly and strange. Strange is the thought that everyone thinks that they are weird, and out of the ordinary, for doing odd things, like talking to themselves or to others. In the great sphere of humanity, we are all humans, right? Nothing we do will be out of the ordinary, or strange, or weird, because we are all human. Philosophy is the art of painting with black and white, defining lines and borders that we should be quite happy not to cross. I’ll leave you with thoughts of me, wondering whether I am deep or strong or shallow and frail, wondering where I fit into humanity. Because we all must fit, if we are truly human inside.