The Witnesses of our Awareness
Who are we really?
With my eyes wide open, I see the luxurious forest, green, orange, brown. Yet, I am not what I see.
With my ears, all attentive, I hear the wind in their leaves, dressed for fall. Yet, I am not what I hear.
With my fingertips, I feel the coarse surface of the oaks’ trunks. Yet, I am not what I feel.
With my nose palpitating, I smell the freshness of the moss, glistening from the morning dew. Yet, I am not what I smell.
With my mouth, I taste that fresh air as I hum with the wind. Yet, I am not what I taste.
With my entire body, I feel exhilarated by all that surrounds me. Yet I am not those sensations.
A thought floats in my mind:
Despite the symbiosis,
I am none of my senses, I am only a witness.
The seer that cannot be seen.
The knower that cannot be known.
The Witness of my Awareness.
