Mornings I stand at the window, watching you, waiting for you to go. I stand until my feet grow tired, and I wonder sometimes what takes you so long to pull away.
How things have changed. Not long ago, I ran to catch you before you walked out the door. I ran to kiss your face. Now, I only wait. I wait, and I don’t know why.
Have you forgotten something? Is it that simple, or is there a war within you?
I ask because I see your struggle each day, see it played out beneath your strained expressions and labored breaths and your frantic attempts to block out the World.
(I wish I were not part of the World.)
Sometimes I think there are two beneath your skin. There is the Pretender – he I know well. And there is the You. I know the You only by glimpses, the way I might catch sight of a shy animal before it scurries off into the brush.
Who sits behind the wheel of the car this morning? Is it the Pretender or the You?
As you pull away at last, is it You driving the car? Or does the car drive You?
“Am I dead?”
“Far from it”
I have been pondering, lately, whether I am the only one here watching, or if there really are 7 billion more people out there. Am I the author of this reality, same as I am the author of my dreams? I read this book, it tells me to consider others as better than my self, to not only look to my interests, but also to the interests of others.
If I am the only one, and “they” all are an image of my consciousness, then why does this book say that? What’s interesting to me is that I can be any kind of person I want to be. And I have all of these images to reflect off of, and compare myself to. And are they (these images) able to influence by behaviors, thoughts, and feelings? And vice versa, can I actually “make” them mad, or feel good, or offended, or joyous? I could go on about places, concepts, history, machines, technology, events, ive imagined and children that I’ve created with my wife (my favorite image)