Autopoesis

 There is no me.  “I” know that; it’s all either one thing or no thing or both or neither.  

We misidentify ourselves as individual beings when, in fact, we are all a singular universal Self, or perhaps we’re just an operation of processes with no discrete identity whatsoever.

In any case, this thing “I” call “me” is an illusion; it has no beginning, nor any end; it’s no more what “I” really am than my image in the mirror or a photograph. When I die, it will re-merge with the fundamental ground of all Being from whence it came and of which it truly is.  This “me” will be no longer, but since it never actually existed, we need not mourn; everything is as it ever was, the song—to quote those great philosophers, Led Zeppelin—remains the same.

All of this is somewhat confounding, however, given one’s appetite for breakfast cereal.  If it’s true that none of us is really what we think we are, then why would “I” be craving another bowl of granola.  Why, in fact, would “I” even had one in the first place?

And if what we really are is the Universal Self, eternal, unchanging, non-dual, pure Being, pure Consciousness, pure Bliss, then how come clothes that “I” purchased last year don’t fit “me” anymore?

Brahman’s got some explaining to do, if you ask “me.”

Perhaps it has something to do with what Alan Watts referred to in the title of his book The Book: On The Taboo Against Knowing Who You Really Are.  Maybe we’re culturally, socially, philosophically, theistically, and just plain stubbornly unable to admit to ourselves that our selves aren’t these things we go around pretending—and convincing—ourselves to be.

It sure would make for a more peaceful and harmonious world to accept the reality of our essential shared identity and moreover, it sure would be nice to share the same bowl of granola every morning as one.