The I abides. As I and Me.
There is meditation that happens - sometimes on a couch, most often on the floor with legs crossed. There is a stillness and a one who breathes. And once in the groove, and grounded, the one slowly summons "AYAM." Mantra appears then, softly at first, growing more substantial with each offering.
The one, just an idea on the floor with legs crossed. Sometimes the feet and legs will tense or tingle. Or the neck will lift spontaneously, rising in different directions. The eyeballs frequently shift up and down, back and forth. Energy is always felt. Every time.
The one, just an idea on the floor with legs crossed, thinks itself a Me.
I watches Me jump and play, twirling from here to there. I sees Me with all its glorious pictures and hopeful little stories. Me carries - no, drags - a trunk full of memories that it relishes rifling through. A victor and a victim, the one was - sinner and saint. Me's nightmares tells it so. And it has a collage of ever-changing hopes about tomorrow - carefully constructed; imagined arts and crafts - a little dreamer. Ever the story-teller. Forever getting lost.
I watches Me get carried away in its cyclonic fantasies of the one Me thinks it is. Images bubble over, and ideas spill forth. I watches as Me plays hide-and-seek between them all. Me hides in shadows, seems to continue on, though knowing better - seeing itself for what it really is: a phantom as real and unreal, as vicious and beautiful as it's own make-believe - only a popping in and out of I. Like fireflies glowing here and there and on and off, in the dark of some summer evening.
Just a fountain of mind-stuff, flowing up and out of nothing.
Me dives in, playfully splashes the others.
Me pretends to drown. Even pretends to be the fountain.
And the I abides. I simply Is.
As the fountain and it's source -
and those who'd thirst its water.
Perceived in stillness as the one who breathes.