It has been a strange day; I find myself absorbed in self-critical reflection. I look out over the fields. Something is growing, something intended, corn or some other crop and it is miraculously uniform and yet infinitely varied. The plants glisten with sunlight. Around the edge of the field, a stream flows. It, too, is uniform and yet ever-changing. As am I. I wonder, sometimes, if consciousness grants us the mere illusion of continuity, if it tricks us into believing we are one when really we are infinite. How could we know? Locked inside our thoughts we can only surmise at what we are and those outside us only see the surface image of what we are, they cannot delve beneath the surface and reveal a truth we cannot see for ourselves. How could they? They too believe that they are one, that they are a single, uniform and continuous being. I am not sure which thought is more comforting: the one, or the infinite. I find this lack of definition interesting, the absence of certainty. It is, perhaps, a more absorbing thought than the self-critical voices which lead me only towards misery. I wonder if this is a trick too, a way of living with myself that is easier than the reality – that I am a messy, inconsequential and inadequate thing just dumbly stumbling along imagining any of it matters.