I have moments where I don't know who this body is, here, shuffling around, doing stuff, getting a drink of water, typing things on Twitter, having thoughts, scratching itself and so on. It's as if I am outside myself at times.
Conversation
I feel the opposite -- that I'm so inside myself I am drowning. Everything I do, except sitting in silence, is the attempt to not drown.
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What is the self that you say you are inside of? Are you talking about the body? The body as the self? But who is aware of the body?
The body is extraneous to the self. It's out there; it's external. It's an object. The self is the subject.
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My "self" is just a way of speaking. I remember my first moments of life. What is non-verbal is my "self", a body with extraordinary awareness of what I'll never understand. My "self" is pure lostness. Think back to your very first moments of life...that is what you are.
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It seems like my life has been spent as if I were a watcher and not an actor. I still have no idea who this stranger is here typing this tweet. It's just a thing out there, the body, that connects me to this material realm. But it's not me. It's temporary.
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But you weren't born a watcher...
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That's all I remember: Watching. And, I was like "what the fuck?"
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"What the fuck?" implies that what you saw as you were watching was disturbing...but you can't do anything about it. I think you wrote somewhere that you can't judge your own life or even anyone else's life.
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It's not a judgement. It's more like... what the fuck?
I'm still doin the same thing I was doing when I was little. I'm an old man, now. Still goin "What the fuck?"
Most of my tweets are a permutation of "What the fuck?"
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And I'm still doing the same thing I was doing when I was little: trying not to drown in my inability to know anything. (Imagine writing a book titled "What the fuck?" and then listing all the what-the-fucks that you watched your whole life...
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Replying to
That made me lol
Yeah we never know any thing. All we know is about it. But not it. Our impressions, our concepts, our imaginings. But never the thing. The elusive thing-in-itself. The self-itself.
All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream. Poe