As I breathe through my nose, distant images of the history of my life run through my head, as the transcendental laws of meditation dictate. When I say they’re going through my head, they’re literally going through: not the liver, not the kidneys, not even the heart. They go through the head because the core is there, the projector and the screen are there, the mind is there. I closed my eyes, positioned myself, and gasped as I joined a parade of images that were there because they felt that way, not me. Nothing pleases me. I stay on the sidelines like a spectator unaware of the parade.
I was very impressed with the details that these frames manifested. I am now standing next to a cardboard horse with wheels on its legs. Kings brought it to me when I was six or seven years old. The horse’s face is more expressive than mine. I see the horse and I see myself as two material objects, and this is what shocks me: the degree to which the evoked image is defined, which I can zoom in to get a better view of one of its parts. If I get too close, it gets pixelated, blurry, just like with computers when you enlarge an image too much.
Do I have a computer within the walls of the skull? Maybe yes, but I’m not sure if I’m the one who handled it because then, before I get to what, my mom shows up in the coffin. Who gave the order to project that photo? If it weren’t for me and I’d already said no, I’d be a kind of sub-me that lives there in the brain, but that I don’t relate to. This means that I have no contact with the fully responsible person. I make a living from both, I get traffic tickets, I suffer from neuralgia and insomnia, but I command nothing. I’m about to stop meditating right now, but as the books advise, I continue to sniff the air with my eyes closed, and at the same time wonder whose hands I am in. I ask myself, whose hand are we in? O: Who is driving the ship?