There are two me's.

There is the me that sees only the light that bounces off surfaces, that only hears the sounds that vibrate in air and flesh and metal and wood, that only smells the aroma of things, of a fresh rain, of sweat, of blood, of smoke in the pines. This is the me that understands completely the logic of hunger and the inevitability of endings. This is the me that wants and wants and is never satisfied, because nothing can satisfy. This is the me that sees only myself.

Then there is the me that sees what is not, that hears the singing that is too soft to be heard yet too piercing to be drowned out, that feels the intangible, that can stop time, that is one with unending being. This me hungers too, but finds the end of its longing, and dwells in perfect joy. This is the me that sees both me's, that knows the visible and the invisible, that understands the hidden relationships of things beneath the surfaces, that is wise.

The first me cannot bear the second me. It despises me. It pretends to be alone, it closes its eyes and covers its ears. The second me knows and loves both me's. It taps me on the shoulder, whispers into the ear of the first me, coaxing me, convincing me, wearing away at my anger and teaching me peace.