Thoughts arising like bubbles in lemonade upon reading about Anatta (anatman). 

I am not who I was, and yet I am, always.

Who I am is not work I am paid to do – as it changes. Will this I stop when work slows like an unwound clock?

Who I am is not who I am around. Otherwise, I am a different me, dependent upon you.

Am I lesser than I was in relation to my relations when they are dead?

If I am my emotions:

I’m a rocky road.

A smooth plain during drought and flood.

White crests whipped up by tidal forces and shifting breezes.

If self is a set of behaviours, perhaps I am not yet fully a self because I have not enacted all behaviours.

My ideas are not my own, but sometimes, how I combine them and express them is due to this me who is none of the above.

Shaped by notions and experiences I recall imperfectly, I am a product of a naturally faulty organic memory machine. As are we all.

People, selves without self, are ripples in pools, quavering with change. Notes in the air, sounding high and low.

Seeing faces in the clouds, I recall Sylvia Plath’s Morning Song. Was this poet the hand of the wind or the distilled mirror?

Regardless, now she is none.

To be…

…as none as she.