This is what Heraclitus might have thought of as war

Another disturbing little episode this morning in which I see myself walking away from myself.

Not unpleasant, but disturbing: it effects not only my sense of identity but my equilibrium as well, my sense of physical and metaphysical balance.

Always sitting when it happens; in this case, drinking coffee and reading The New York Times.

Something comes over me and I'm very softly split into two so that my left eye, particularly my left eye, witnesses what it believes to be Brooks Roddan walking away from Brooks Roddan, not in anger or with any sort of premeditated intention, but as part of some sort of destiny over which Brooks Roddan has no control.

My right eye watches what happens. Gathering my wits with both eyes, I sort of like not being Brooks Roddan.

Then, coming back to the being I'm accustomed to, I enjoy a royal reunion. Of course I've taken notes, my way of keeping my eyes open: 1) these episodes only happen when I'm alone 2) this must be what it feels like to be a bird flying into a window, at a speed not fast enough to kill but sudden enough to awaken it into some new sense of its being.

Brooks Roddan, author and publisher, moments after he departed from himself, briefly, September 19, 2018.