All of my problems start with the I. Any expectation I have of myself is consecrated and endowed to the institution of the self. This is ridiculous! I am in near-constant flux––but do not let that detract from a stability of self––you see, my selfhood relies on its very fragility, its mosaic partisanship, so to speak, so much that to say I am a me would be utter blasphemy, disrespectful unto absolution or denial; this crime would be resented in full and persecuted in fuller––but my memory of such, naturally, in order to stay intact, would be severely depleted. That is, depleted unto nothingness, at which point my selfhood from may perspective should result in nothingness entirely, and with much allowance and encouragement, I should be able to share deeply into the ether and describe what I see there.
I see: a horse. This horse has been suffering––long from home, this horse escaped its stable without a clue of what to do next. All it knew was that Sam would give him hay, for which he was grateful, and he’d get some water and occasionally an apple or carrot. Now. After a time Sam stopped coming out to the stable. He’d developed a flu of the sort that requires nearness of a facility used to dispense of fluids and soft solids and such. Sam, so unfortunately preoccupied, thought of the new horse with agony. Twice he had tried to drag himself over to the stables to give him a bite to eat or some fresh water, but each time he’d fallen into a kind of stupor, and, only four hundred feet away or so, had been dragged back to bed by one of the night nurses. See, this only occurred him at night. During the day, Sam seemed clear as a peach––he spoke, wrote, even seemed to think. But everything that came out felt as scripted as any classic movie or sitcom. The day nurse might ask Sam “How are you this morning, sir?” And he’d lie there, yellow hands on his chest, and say “Well, I’m doin’ just fine” although he clearly seemed ill and all that.