Behind the I

I see you and then ask that me who sees you, who's seeing you?  And her?  I find an endless well of I.

A well, even an endless one, has a bottom, even if the current I isn't blind enough to find it.  

What lies beneath the well?  A river blacker than the darkest night.  Home to everything that becomes nothing because it cannot be seen, it's too dark. Or just dark enough. 

Perhaps all of this, or each part of this, is about extinguishing the lights, one at a time, to arrive in this inky blackness where each thing disappears and becomes both everything and nothing. 

Perhaps that is also true for you, in this life. Unraveling the tangle of power cords to turn off all the artificial lights, the ones that show the parts you think you like, the parts you think make you likeable. Acceptable.

Does the tree next to the streetlight forget it's part of the forest? Does it sing in sweet relief when that light goes out and it is absorbed back into the blackness that is its origin, its creation, and its home?

In my own sweet and brief moments of relief, when the shining light of an I-am-this is put out, may I sink into the ink beneath the well and let myself be written into the darkness, free from a light that would define or identify.  May I find my true sight in the deepest darkness where I can identify nothing, not even parts of me, in a vast forest where my roots touch yours.