“I”, the Witness

The “me” I think I am
exists only in my memory,
a chain of thoughts
I have thought about myself.

It is a story strung together
from thought after thought,
until this train of thought
seems to solidify
into a sense of “me”,
into an object
of my experience.

How often I forget
that there is an “I”
who is witness to all this,
who sees these thoughts
come and go,
who sees everything
come and go,
welcoming
each new moment,
needing no story,
no explanation.