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Movement. It’s perhaps the most quintessential element of the human condition.
You move from one location to another throughout life. Home. School. Work. Dates. Meetings. Vacations. Retirement. Funerals. When you should, when you want, when you must.
You move, too, in time. Like a time traveler. From the past to the present. From the present to the future. From birth to adolescence to old age. One way. Like Gatsby. Unable to go back.
And there is internal movement. Your cells constantly renew. About 330 billion cells daily, about 1% of you. Over the course of 100 days or so, you are essentially a new you.
My last analogy. Notice how, for example, one thought leads into another. Try to stop it. Try thinking your last thought. Hold onto that precise mental moment for as long as you can, no interruption. I’ll wait . . .
Ok, you move. What’s the point?
The point is that you are not, as intuition hints, a driver going along a road. You are the car.
And the story is movement. A drive. Even when you stop going forward, or backward, when you are idle, still, you move. Otherwise, you are dead.
Without this knowledge, you look ahead, for yourself, but see only what you have yet to traverse. And when you look back, again, you fail to see yourself.
The perceived continuity between the past or the future with the present puts you in contrast with whom you are. Which is neither. And both.
You are not an identity. But a process.
As such, you are not one thing. But things moving together to make the thing you recognize as you, the thing of things, move.
You are kaleidoscopic. The universe. Looking back at itself.
You are everything.
Everything is now.
Movement from movement from movement . . .
(To watch a narrated short film derived from this content, click here.)