I am impersonal consciousness,
Yet personal drama rules my life.
I am all that is and omnipotent,
Yet, I struggle to control my environment.
I am free,
Yet, I feel imprisoned in my body.
I am the essence of time itself,
Yet, I can’t focus for more than a few secs.
I am the one,
Yet, I am no one.
What am I?
Am I a bundle of thoughts,
Advocating for a self,
That I have never truly seen?
Am I raw sensations,
Of a material body,
Made of quantum probabilities?
Am I a purely computational process,
That both exist and does not exist,
In Godel’s digital computer?
Am I a complex entanglement,
In Penrose’s quantum computer?
Am I a fundamental force of nature,
That binds space, time, all the leptons and bosons together?
Am I time itself,
In improbable directions.
Am I a wave in the ocean,
Only believing to be separate from it.
No! Right now,
I am just the one ridding a thought,
That is arguing for itself.
Is this love?
I look in the mirror,
But all I can see is you.
Is this love?
Is this another delusion,
Like when I was pretending to be my body?
I need to pierce this mystery,
But the more I search,
The more lost I seem to be.
The thought there is more,
Keep me from being whole now.
I am eager to merge back with the source,
Only being afraid to discover that I already have.
What am I? Something? Nothing? Everything?
How can I be a multitude of ones?
When the mind stops its chatter,
Let me rest in what I truly am: pure love.
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