Not just in thought but in comportment as well you can exist in a kind of superpostion, as if you are pursuing two or more lines at the same time. You seem as multiform as all the threads that pass through you. As inactual, these are all forms of reservation, or of hedging, of arbitrage, the engagements with the world by which you serially point to yourself. In actuality however, in the very present moment, you are always one, but a one that can't be grasped as object. It is if the present is an aperture so fine that only one thing can pass through it at a time, like the neck of an hourglass. Thinking deceives you into beleiving that you share in its pluralistic nature, but even the act of thought as it happens is utterly single. It is impossible to think the nature of this living unity even though it is your constant experience, it is so incredibly fine, below thought, or above it. A single brain, we are told, can under certain pathological conditions, 'contain' or express two distinct consciousnesses, but consciousness itself can never be doubled. Perhaps this is why the complexity of complex experiences can be such a pleasure in itself; you marvel at the ease by which consciousness as pure presence synthesises everything given to it. The Self does its work without any expenditure of energy, which makes it quite foreign to the brain.