Identity is a cloud of imploding fragments
Constantly rearranging pictures memories sounds
Utterances emotive secretions
Oozing out of the orderly chronological landscape
Seeping out of the boxical matrix location
We think to contain them
But change, shifts happen without our even noticing
We are a mass of probability possibility
Even our past is slipping into something more comfortable
We plan confident in our self knowledge
But what is self?
How do we revel in this self identity matrix
That is really a cloud of chaotic bits swirling about our consciousness
When we know it is a fantasy?
An illusion of practical physicality?

Sink into the Oneness
Lose your self in the Oneness

Mary Lou Newmark © 2003