I sometimes wonder what I am. Not who–I know that–but what. What is thinking these thoughts and sensing the external world? What exactly is the “me” that feels sadness, an itch on my left calf, a breeze, the strange joy of one chord in a song? Is there a being there inside my brain, directing the body and reacting to its information, separate from it yet essential to it? Or is consciousness some kind of complex illusion–but if it is an illusion, what kind is it? Who is being fooled if there is no me?
Photo by Vince Fleming.