”Who are I”, a little surprised by the sudden question and the strange wording. The response comes quickly – no answer.

I wait without waiting, and there is the same answer – silence.

No image of self comes to mind. No self, really? What now? I taste the feeling of not having an answer. There is no sadness, no excitement with mystical qualities for the sudden self-discovery. Nothing is what is there. How does nothing feel? It feels ”nothing”. I think there might be a silent hum, but is is barely noticeable.

I try on my regular wardrobe of happy, sad, curious, strange, fearlessness, rascallious, well adjusted, mischievousness, in tune with life, reactive, careless, carefree, good husband, spiritual, loving father, role model for my children and others etc but nothing fits at all. It is not that I dislike what my wardrobe has to offer. It has served me well. But there is more a quality of “they don’t fit so it makes no sense in wearing them at all”.

So what do I want then? I take turns in asking as the father of three, the husband, the son, the brother, the friend and the fellow human being. Again there is silence. I rest and I clearly see that silence is an excellent answer.

Imagine looking at yourself in a mirror. We always put on an act and do stuff to see how it turns out in the reflection, maybe to get a feel for how we might appear in the eyes of others. What would you do if there was no reflection of yourself?

The feeling is strange, to not have a self image to play with.

I have been noticing that writing this makes an image take form. I am the writer who writes the story of having no thing to write about. But the form doesn’t hold itself and I am sure that it will dissolve once the “publish” button have been hit.

Rest in peace, both writer and I.