Who am I? That seems to be the theme of my twenties and thirties.
Am I the voice that incessantly comments on everything I see, every emotion I have, and waffles from every single viewpoint available?
Am I the angry, sad, happy emotions that overwhelm me?
Am I this body, the physical form that I encompass and carry with me and have a love-hate relationship with?
The voice is just in constant narration of everything it sees. The body is only the vehicle to move it around in. The emotions are a way for me to experience this human experience.
I am the observer, the one that notices the thoughts. “Why is she wearing that? It’s not flattering. Oh, now she’s looking at me, smile so she doesn’t think I was judging her. Oh wait, now I see she has a disabled child, what a complete shithead of me to judge her when she clearly has other priorities than her wardrobe. Goodness, I have to forgive myself so I don’t linger on this. I’m just doing the best I can, based on current circumstances.” This voice, the one that rides the roller coaster with all the gusto of a teenager hopped up on cocaine. The roommate that won’t shut up and gives horrible advice.
I am the one that sees the trees, the ocean, the sky, and falls in love with the way the wind makes whitecaps on the bay. I’m the one that can take a split-second snapshot of a tree and see all of its details at once, observe it in its entirety. I am the one that sees the beauty in a mud puddle in the middle of an industrial park.
I am the one observing that I feel the emotions this incessant viewing and commenting creates. The one that notices my emotions are angry at my boss, in love with my husband, elated when a new book comes out I’ve been waiting for.
I am the one that is aware I’m aware, that is seated back here in my consciousness. The observer of the thoughts and emotions and form.
I am not my thoughts. I am not my emotions. I am not this body. I am pure consciousness, the witness.