Sleeping Unnaked

If I were the core of me, the me unmolded by experience, what would I be? I am afraid of the potentialities.

I am therefore thankful for my history.

Things of sentimental value--are they the sound of falling trees, the existence of which determined only by witnesses? Once gone the person who attaches sentimentality, the object retreats back to its own being. But older. Lonelier. Dusty.

The concurrent states of intro?spection and physical sensations fascinate. I think I am surrounded by my own flesh, but perhaps I'm outside rather than in? Or am I nothing if not this living, breathing flesh, this indefinable whole? Where do the unidentifiable parts reside? What gives me this life, I don't understand.