Always aware as my ego, transforming from one vague ink spot thought to another, blocking out the sun or making me invisible enough. Always somehow an obstruct. My personal investigation for now as I feel the ego sometimes surge right out, a sudden contracting correction with a mumble down in speech. "Quiet down...easy does it." The same old voice. The same old questioning of my indescribable, prude heritage roots. The inability to adjust the volume, twist the knob, just so. Which antennae is receiving right: a pinky, my left ear, the piece of hair always afloat, something different.
While trying to clap a fruit fly between my hands, the air pressure forced it out in some unknown direction, sparing it's life with chaotic air change. A small reminder, direct zen, without the ever quizzical paradox when trying to think: 'Out not in'.