If I shut one eye and look inwards and sideways with the other one I can see the front side of my nose and the arch of a lower eyebrow curving away to the right, and if I shut that eye and look through the opposite one I can see the other side of my nose and other eyebrow curving away up to the left, although it is not my nose really, nor my lower eyebrows, because I am just a mind trapped behind and inside of these external things that are not really a part of me.
I, the real me, am a mind trapped inside a head, a prisoner in a skull, and with no proper understanding of what I really am, although an electrochemical creation of moving particles within a network of nerves might cover it, apparently, without revealing anything, really.
I have control over the movement of arms and hands and so a moment ago I was gently slapping at the sides of the head that contains me.
Some people began looking at me as I wrote that. Other minds swivelling their electrochemically linked eyes to observe me, because slapping the sides of my head is not a very appropriate thing to do while sitting alone in a coffee shop.
Ah... The thoughts from inside this head, this damned big bony head, that I am trapped inside. Dammit. Sometimes I want out...
But anyway I am thinking a regular thought again, about the possible illusion of continuity that a consciousness creates each morning, on awakening, when in reality it is perhaps a completely new awakening into awareness, albeit one provided with unreliable memories of previous awakenings, such that each day is really a new life. And many of these unique moments of conscious awareness I am remembering are of previous days experienced by people who I may naively claim to also have been me.
I am currently recalling that I claim to remember the day that the first “he” of me was born, but I'll leave that improbable story for later, and instead will just recall my first plausible memory.
It was summer more than fifty years ago. I now know it was a time of unusual heat and I must have been lying on my back in the pram, because in my memory I can still see the pebble-dash wall rising high above me, although I didn't know what it was back then. The dark pram canopy, half obscuring my view.
The deep blue fifties sky high above, and me lying there looking up and wordlessly thinking, 'What’s this then?'
If only I had known...
Even though I still have no idea, of course.
Even as I sit here, imprisoned but free, with people around me in a coffee shop. But the problem with a mind, or one of the problems with a mind, is that is wanders weirdly, jumping forwards and back and side to side and round and round the frantic multidimensional landscape of memories and thoughts and plans and possibilities. And another memory has just returned...