If I think people are reading my writing, I instantly turn on my entertaining self.
If I write as I am now to me sitting here in the treehouse while listening to crows caw in the woods, I am myself.
But I am all of these.
Better yet, there is no I.
But the illusion is real enough to act as though the approximation of self acts of its own accord.
The illusion is real until it is not.
The chirping cardinal does not split into a solar system of states of energy to tell another cardinal, “Follow me. I found food.”
Why should I?
Which approximation shall I resemble most?
That is the question.
This semirandom placement of trees, moss, algae, ants, birds, vines and other approximations suffice to give me definition.
For that, I am thankful.
Sometimes, dancing is not the destination but part of the journey.
I am the Wandering Wonderer.
Where I travel next is solely up to me.