It wouldn’t be hard to convince myself that I am in hiding, that I have been in hiding for years, and that I am a hermit or recluse, despite being seen in public every day, and speaking in a friendly fashion with people I meet. One curious thing is that my voice seems to belong to someone else, and that the sound of it seems to come from a great distance, as if it were an echo or the north wind. While this might indicate sinus trouble, or a strange obstruction or malformation in my skull, the sense that I am both here and not here seems to be growing stronger with age. In other words, maybe my hiding is so effective that I am becoming hidden even from myself. Now, you might say, But we are all hidden from ourselves, and that is almost certainly true. But the question is, if we know it, are we still hidden? Or do we only catch glimpses of ourselves as we do the moon, riding in clouds? When I first mentioned hiding, I meant hiding in a willful sense, hiding by choice. Do I have a choice? If I am not the individual I think I am, and am instead a simple cell that is part of a larger body, a body that is universal and immense, what is my profound yet lowly function? To hide? To propel? To cause pleasure and pain? To rejoice in a truth I never will know, and which somehow I know even now? Or do I exist of my own hidden need, and in doing so play a part in creating the body itself? Do I create you? Do you create me? And if so, what better definition of wealth?
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