A mush of self

We (human beings) are not, not, not what other people see us as being. That is just the surface of self.

Nor are we our fantasy self-images, much as we ought to respect and cherish these.

We exist in a mush of self.

I picture my mush as a beautiful but gormless amphibious creature, struggling to find direction in difficult, curious terrain.

Communication between mushes is inevitably messy.

Somewhere within my mush is an author, writing, here, now, 'I am the author of these words'.

This author-self could be seen as a kind of micro-self.

Here, now, one micro-self says 'hello'.