Self-Confined

This is a work of fiction. In more ways than one. Such a sad fate for an unwitting species, this emergence of a ‘self’, what we humans absurdly call ‘consciousness’ . (as if our delusion of ‘knowing’ made us smarter or better than other animals that have no need for it). As if ‘we’ can ‘know’ what is true and real, afflicted as we are with our self’s false sense of separation, control, and responsibility. This is the hermetic tragedy of the self, this mad sense of owning and being in control of these bodies, as if they were, somehow, separate, autonomous things. What use would nature ever for have for such things? And with this deranged sense of self and separation comes the horrifying fear of death . (of the body we presume to possess, and of the soul, the spirit, and the self, itself, caught in the endless self-referential loop of ‘me’), as if this body were anything more than a temporary container for its trillions of residents, readily sloughed off when they move to newer…