Am I that I am?

I’m not a big fan of clichés, but in this new millennium they seem hard to avoid. Everything written, in one form or another, has been written before. You can tell a story differently, but it’s probably happened somewhere, sometime, in the past. Someone has likely articulated it. We have comedy and drama, the laughing face and the sad one. As the Dancing Outlaw said, “there’s love in it, there’s happiness in it, there’s also sorrow, hatred and madness in it.” I was watching CNN this evening, as I’m prone to do in my weakest moments, and I heard some great advice on Larry King. One of the quantum physicists who spoke in the movie “What the Bleep do we Know” said “let’s say you are sitting on the couch depressed and feeling lousy, ask yourself WHO is depressed?” This is a great little exercise I found. It makes you realize that it’s not you. It’s a voice. Like the voice of sorrow, who articulates the sadness of the world, the desperation and desolation of life, it is only a voice, another habit in the void. We could also ask the question in times of ecstasy or happiness, who is happy? Then we come back to the I AM consciousness. I am that I am. This thing is neither empty nor full, half-empty or half-full, it just is, and existence as experienced by man is a matter of mind. We are prey to our mind, or we are benefited by it. Existence is many different colors, and one is no better than another, they are all necessary for the comedy or drama which ever exist in this world of life and death, love and loss, growth and dilapidation. I am that I am, and I fall victim to the chemical attachments in my brain. Who is addicted to these attachments? Who is prey to ecstasy or sadness depending on circumstances? The definition of the observer is what is malleable in this odd new world of post relativistic modernity, where everything means nothing, and nothing means everything. Truth has been crushed under the wheels of expanding thought and information. The information superhighway is littered with the writhing bodies of the limited beliefs of our past, yet we are still hardwired for our delusions and addictions, even though we know them to be destructive and not inevitable. We can only sail on in this odd new world of science, and choose to accept life in all its scientific deconstruction. It’s a strange day indeed when man has broken himself down into molecules. Who is the puppet master of this carbon based, oxygen breathing machine? Is it even possible for the life force to be depressed? What is the observer observing, and can it really separate itself from its own being? Maybe Larry King knows. Time only passes for those who are on the clock.