The biggest joke I ever tell, day in and day out, involves the word “I”.
I don’t believe in someone called “I”.
And yet she appears to write a blog almost daily.
Who is this imposter who writes? Who is this being who appears? Who claims to be a self? And why is she appearing out of this particular play to express herself?
You could laugh yourself silly.
When I believe in her, I suffer. I wish I didn’t (that is her talking, not me.) I am everything that appears, the snowflakes, the robin, the mourning dove, the purple-pink dove.
When the roller coaster screams upward, I remember. Ah, yes. Not this, not that, not anything.
When the roller coaster screams downward, I cling to identity as much as any human, maybe harder, maybe tighter, so afraid the roller coaster will break and the pieces go shattering through space and death is just a moment away–
How many days must the roller coaster travel up and down before we realize it’s time to get off, it’s not necessary, we don’t need to scream, we don’t need the thrills, we don’t need to play, it doesn’t even exist, the dream which is dreaming us only appears to plummet and rise, plummet and rise?
The biggest joke is that we call ourself “I” and I’m laughing hysterically at the irony, the absolute irony of this. Somewhere between yesterday and tomorrow the roller coaster will stop and the man selling tickets will point us toward the woods of ourselves and we’ll see so clearly what we’ve always seen and yet never recognized because the momentum up and down moved us from the heart’s quiet knowing.