Who am I?
A question - innocuous, innocent, superficially easy to answer. Perhaps. While attempts at answers have catapulted the world's deepest thinkers into permanent solitude and death, only those on the quest truly understand the drive and futility of this paradox.
Except chickens.
Free from the throws of status, the pitfalls of ego, and the illusion of self, chickens poop anytime, anywhere, even in their sleep. Their quest, in its highest form, is foul play.
The neighbor is off snow-birding, and I get to care for the chickens in her absence.
Chickens do not know they are an aspect of self. So, they do not worry about pooping in their bed, inside their house, on their feet, or even on their bird. Nor are they bent on ascending their purpose.
Choosing to see beyond the opinions of self, is the life of a chicken.
I suspect then, I would be fully realized when I poop in my sleep.
