Some days, I feel like OLD Frankenstein. I detach, stand back and look at my brain. Is it really me or is it Abby Normal?
How did all that stuff get in there and why do I think it's so important?
Like a full i-phone, it's a conglomeration of memory, apps, music, images and sounds.
I push my buttons and something happens.
Others push my buttons and something happens.
I'm programmed.
By mental software that was created and installed in slapdash fashion on the fly. Pong was overlaid by Nintendo which was overlaid by Windows which was overlaid by Google. No such thing as defrag here.
In the program, I believe this mess is me.
Outside the program, I can see it's not.
That body isn't me either.
What the hell?
Apparently, "I" am portable. I'm the ghost in the machine. Whatever gets my attention, gets me.
If this is true for me, maybe it's true for you. Let's sit with this thought for a minute.
If you're brave enough to consider you might be an etheric version of Abby Normal, keep reading here: "Is Everything a dream?"
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