I’m sitting in my chair looking out the window. I’m not particularly sure why. It’s dark outside, and there’s not really much to see. I’m more resting my eyes upon the absence to afford me a glimpse into my thought. Into myself. What am I?

All things are the liminality of something else. Every thought, every object, every moment, every word, every force, every idea, every action. It is only in relation to other that a thing is able to have shape. To have character. An infinite homogeny is experientially coequal to an infinite nothing. We are, all things, born of contrast. What am I?

All things are the liminality of something else. I am a filter, converting inputs into outputs. I eat, and then I shit. I drink, and then I pee, and I sweat, and I spit, and I cry, and I come. Every nerve takes in some merging of substance converting to chemical chain of action which I conceive to be image and sound and a scratching on my skin. The sour in my mouth because I am thirsty. We crave and we avoid. Each input transformed to an output designed as a quest to control the next input. The light becomes chemical, becomes perception, becomes consideration, becomes motive, becomes action, becomes impact. Which stage in that process is the I? Am I the body, or the perception, or the thought, or the choice, or the desire, or the fear, or the action, or the impact? Am i the opportunity for that conversion? Am I its method? What am I?

All things are the liminality of something else. We are perpetually moving forever suspended in this happening between past and future.. Both of which are an illusion built on memory and expectation. My filter is rife with preconceived notions built upon my past exposure. Each moment gone, filtered into what I imagined them to be, are the basis upon which I experience the now and imagine what we have called “possibility.” All moments past are stored in the structures of the now. In the particles, in the mountains, in the universe, in the mind. The shape and substance of the body over which I have only the slightest bit of control, is a rendering of every moment which has impacted its components. It is a hard drive consisting of all of its response to all it has encountered. It is the space between then and eventually, entrenched upon its place, as the all forever rendering the outcome yet to be. What am I?

All things are the liminality of something else. I believe that choice is the magic that we have called life. This propensity for unpredictability. But I don’t believe the I, whatever it is that I am, is a thing that resides within borders. I don’t believe the I is contained. I believe I am spread within and mixed throughout all that which passes through me. My body is as much cells as structure, object, and microbe, cycling through their choice. With every moment I have breath. With every moment breath has me. With the breath that calms my heart. With the love extended through my touch. Through my words, which now travel within you.  I have never been so clearly defined as to split me from the rest. I don’t know what I am, but I am not separate. And maybe that’s how I found my thought beyond the night-blackened window.