1 Mar 2009

With a thought, I am not me, but a stranger to all that this life holds. I examine the pieces of this existence as one peruses someone else’s dreams: with distance, unaffected. What did this person have to value in their sitting and working, standing and clapping, running and winking? Why did he keep this, and throw that away, buy that, and give this as a casual gift? One cannot truly search into another man’s soul by the things he left behind, but they are still clues as to what kind of matters filled his heart. And then, with a thought, I am me again, forgetting the not-me that I was, and I think back, was that not-me right? Or am I mysterious, even to the most intimate of knowledge, even to myself, pretending, who can see all the secrets, but simply does not care?

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

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