Searching for the self you have mislaid like your car keys... No, this is just nostalgically trying to recreate some happy image of a voice or an inner personage who has something to say, some pride in an achievement, as if the non-boring place were more authentic than the one thought boring - as if reality were the distinction determined by the image of a dinner party where for a few moments you shone, and all eyes were on you, distinguished. There are no eyes on you and if there were they would be seeing something quite different, a byway endlessly leading back and never arriving. The thing is to have given over the centre of reality to the web of circumstances, as if his were complete and consistent, as everybody knows, and without a flaw. Witnessing has no colour, it doesn't invite your heart despite the way that your heart when it is roused invites the witnessing to conform and confirm it. It is simply there, is the being there, without any pull to change the least thing one way or another, including that habitual flaw, the resting on the ledge of circumstance as if there were a weight that needed to be set down, and down and down it goes, and not this supreme weightlessness.