You Are Not Your Thoughts

When I'm caught in the melee,

comfort seems a luxurious concept

unattainable,

intended only for the privileged.

I'm narrow - a sliver

a fish hook dragged through sand and seaweed.

In lack of safety,

stability,

simple survival seems the best case scenario.

In the end, I can gather what's left of me,

if anything at all, and recover.

The scattered internal world speaks ceaselessly.

A running dialogue that analyzes, categorizes

and criticizes - almost entirely myself and

my own performance

in the battle.

I hear it,

it sounds like truth.

I hear it,

it sounds like my voice.

With such consistent presence,

why would I doubt it?

It knows all that I know.

Its experiences match mine exactly.

The thoughts seem a deeply embedded and vital

part of the self.

But,

I found a vessel I can ride, to descend,

and see what's underneath.

From this protected position I see layers

of consciousness, and as they separate

I recognize my thoughts as nonsense -

electrical firings, reactionary sparks of meaningless energy,

sent from the depths of an endlessly dark abyss.

I travel through them, not without difficulty.

Thoughts float up with urgency,

demanding my attention, in the guise

of my own voice. I discard and descend.

Under it all, I find stillness, and in the

strength I find in stillness,

I sense myself there, and I find

comfort

there

comfort that I generated, crafted

with love

just for me.