The charade of personhood

I cannot stop thinking about all of the small deaths we face. I tend to minimize their impact by remembering that they are not equivalent to someone no longer physically being here- but some of these small deaths feel just as jarring and painful. The loss of a friendship you cared for deeply- betrayal. The loss of a life you imagined for yourself- mourning. A career gone- disappointment. Health degrading- new realities. So many micro deaths, so many little fractures. I am beginning to ask myself, what is it that I am actually learning. Physical life is not the only finite thing- experiences, expectation’s, emotions- they all have their last day, but we treat it all as if it would last forever. And when something different grows in its place, where did I place the thing that went before? Energy doesn’t disappear, it can’t be destroyed, only transferred. When I consider the meaning of the transference of energy then the purpose of art (for me) becomes clear. The sound of my voice becomes less shaky. What are we transferring? How? Have I been intentional about this transference? Is that even possible? How many roles have I played? How many micro deaths? Who is the me that is watching it all play out, observing quietly in the corner. Who is the me that gets to ask these questions?

I find myself walking down the narrow corridor of transmutation. So many hanging pictures of things that were but can no longer be. The photos still hang, because nothing is forgotten. Not truly. Dusted over and grimy, but the photos still hang. I continue down the corridor. The lights flicker. I can hear my footsteps, each step forward echoing in the empty narrowing hall. Until I reach a door, not locked but stuck and needing a nudge. What is on the other side? Transmutation. On the other side is process, acceptance, truth. On the other side I am the audience watching the play and I am the actors, every single one of them. I am the stage itself. Process. Something in me stirs. I push the door with my shoulder. I shove it. Then a voice sounds out- “if you step through this door you cannot turn back. Not for some time. You will not be able to see anything. Not for some time. How ever you knew life before, that will all die. You will emerge with different eyes. Time will fold onto itself. Only go through when you are ready”. I give it one final push and it swings open with ease. Everything goes so black that I cannot adjust my vision to the darkness. I must use my other senses to navigate back stage. I can feel everyone I have ever been, inside this one body- all snapping into place. I’ve always imagined myself to have evolved past certain phases of life so I find it shocking when I see that these different variations have gone nowhere but deeper inside of me. I have simply lost the ability to see the stage, the actors, the audience. I have simply lost the awareness to understand the script I am holding. “The charade of personhood”. An unraveling awaits.