Que se passe-t-il

I am what is being experienced,

the universe focused in the eye of the beholder.

There is a quality of sensation felt as myself which like the "I"

of the hurricane is a calm center of awareness.

The exact point of myself in this calm is held as if it were

in a black hole where my purest reality cannot escape itself.

The absolute.

I am tethered to the Absolute by the cord of consciousness.

Again and again I gaze hard at my reflexion in the looking glass.

Then blink without acknowledgement,

for my stare reveals no one is there.

All descriptions of me are like barnacles attached to me,

for nothing is really mine. My name is a word,

like any other sound which when repeated blurs to babble.

My pride enjoys the false luxury of vanity,

a cosmetic decoration that casts me into the farthest ring of self delusion.

I distract myself with novelties. But they are not me.

I identify with follies. But they are not me. I am an accomplice

to my own ignorance. Under the magnifying glass of attention,

my personality has the permanence of fog.

I communicate with myself in monologue.

My questions echo in my mind.

All this thinking exhausts me and I must rest.

But who falls asleep and dreams?