Who is the “I” that watches your thoughts?
Who is the “I” that observes your moods and feelings?
How often are you aware of their presence?
Where do they retreat to when you are noisy?
Or are they there all along, like a noiseless white noise?
like the dark absence under the presence of light?
How much shame to they observe in you?
How much joy? How much grief?
How much compassion?
When you think of this “I” – what form does it take?
And when you let that conceptualisation fall away –
fall apart and away from a sensual existence
which sensual aspects disintegrate first?
Visual concept? Smell? Texture? Temperature? Sound(s)?
Which is the last to go?
And what rushes in to the fill the space of sensual conceptualisation?
Are there still words? Is there still sense?
Is there meaning without sense?