“I do not live in this hole in the ground, I live in this
body which floats very near to but slightly above the ground… for clarity, I
should iterate that I am not truly contacting the ground with my bare feet
inasmuch as I am simply not capable of such. None of us are. This fact is not
supernatural, mostly philosophical, but I use this as a method by which I gain
meaning from my life. I do not twist in this wind, for I am not the thing that
the wind twists, though I sense it.
“Furthermore, the distinctions between sensation and being,
yes they are discrete, but they are so often lumped together. The thought: ‘What I sense is a direct result of my
personhood.’ and: ‘What I sense is
the only truth.’
“No, I say. The sensate ‘demi-self’ is the version of you that
lives hungry and twisting in the gully of your throat. One’s own self is
divorced from the display or the signifiers of ‘self,’ amorphous, odorless,
without mass or temperature. I, myself, my self, live(s) in here,” she touches
her breast, “where the pumping blood and the wisp of my soul present one
another with facts about their existences.”
She tilts her chin toward the rocky outcropping in the
distance, where the dust from the desert obscures finer details. Wordlessly,
she goes.
