The Witness Consciousness

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.

mudpuddle KPGI 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.

 

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