Leave it to us writers, thinkers to come up with such elaborates tales as "selves." What are such things? Are we not playing pretend when we scribble and theorize, propose and identify? Who is there to pretend? What fascinating masks we weave to ensue a drama of "me," or in academic cases, "us," to play it all out and act as if we are so certain of things, which are indeed nothing but passing in and out of nothing. Beneath our masks, under the stage, we rest in the void- and do not confuse this with nihilism (Yet another game of pretend). Truly, the only place there is anything is nowhere, and the only moment we can find ourselves, true selves (pardon these words, for they are ultimately signposts resting on infinity), is in this moment. What is the past? Do we think?
Perhaps that is the problem; no past exists but our memories, and no future but a speculative gaze, lost in thought. All that rests is presence. This is not obvious, but inherent. If we want to understand ourselves, we can't do it through theorizing (Beating the bush, for certain!) It can only be done directly, now, here. Then we see there is no "we" nor "you," and so you are all things. You are other. You are sunsets, papers, peoples and the like.
Even so, let us carry on and continue the rabble another day longer.
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