This is the story I will tell at my funeral: there are two of me; I-now, I-then. One is unreliable.
By the time you read these words the I-then that wrote them will be gone and largely forgotten will be what it was, though a trace lingers, a hovering ghost upon these words, this paper and ink, surd and inert until…
You are the something rather than nothing. A concentration and fusion. Buber writes, “I requires a You to become
I say You.”
This is a cosmic source. This story. This I. This absence kindled anew by presence.
The I-now doesn’t exist.