I’ve lately had the feeling that I don’t fit inside myself. Like, my inside is bigger than my body. You mustn’t take that too literally. It’s not like I’m bloated. I don’t have the urge to peel my skin off. Rather—I don’t know, it’s hard to explain, but—I feel like there’s more me than the me inside me.
You know how when you’re in the mall and you see a woman screaming at her toddler and you start crying? Yes. Exactly. I’ve been pushing this notion of identifying with people into the territory of actually being identical to them. Do you see? I can’t fit inside me.
It’s confusing. So let me begin again. I have insides outside my skin. A blur, a blend: Imagination / Attention.
For instance, if I pay attention to a tree, what does that even mean? To pay attention? You give the tree something. You give the tree you. Now a tree is usually considered alive but not sentient, but what I’m trying to express here is that by observing a tree, by giving it your attention, the line between in and out BLURS and the tree achieves its own kind of subjective inwardness. That’s what the tree buys when you pay attention. And now you, because you can’t fit inside yourself, are a tree—"your" inside is inside the tree—and you’re looking down at the odd human being, staring up at you, stunned, mesmerized by being ecstatically lost in the forest.
“Hello,” the tree says, feeling you out for the courage to imagine. The future—it dangles on your reply.