The self is an entity that is larger than the body. That is the premise upon which I stand. The body is inside the self. Character is the identification of the self to a body. Story is the moment, an amalgamation of what is remembered and what is imagined to be believed. Self is the perceiver that reads the moment. Self is the Author that Is.
I’ve had a pain in my back for ages. It was in the same unfortunate spot for years, roughly a decade. There was a breakthrough some time ago, the discomfort began to migrate, from right to left, then seemingly from muscle to organ, the latest manifestation a sensation of the esophageal opening to the stomach on the constant verge of collapse.
Today the feeling was particularly prevalent and unbearable. I carried on as I have (as one does) for I have ample evidence that everyone experiences some form of discomfort all the time — welcome to existence, at least the corporeal reality. I’ve taken to likening it to a game, a puzzle, the rigging round a ship’s mast… to fit… if I could just…
I dug my thumb into the right side of my axis vertebra. My head is off its pitch, I’ve known that. I sat back on the couch, closed my eyes and played the game, seeking balance and symmetry, daring pressure and welcoming release. ‘I feel tilted. Is that compensation? The new normal to be remembered?’
When, at last, I stood, the pain in my back was gone, the constant spasm relieved. I dared not move lest the moment be forgotten. Air passed coolly through my pipes, like they feel in dreams. Is this a physical association? A mental aberration? I stood 3″ taller, imagining I believed I was growing into self.