And why is me … me?
I lay on the bed in the afternoon. Even through the full blast of the air-con, the heat and humidity of a Friday afternoon in Saudi crept through the crevices of the walls. A whiff of mlookhiyyeh being prepared flitted through the corridors; my mother was downstairs making lunch. My sister was in her bedroom. I was in mine. Dad was having coffee in the living room.
It was maybe 20 years ago when I pondered that question.
I kept cogitating, back then, on why would I exist as Kinan, and not Mohammed or Ramzi or Dania or a mattress or a table or a pebble; why did my soul, conscious, or whatever people label it, look through the eyes of *this* body and not *that* body. When I laugh, would other people find what I laughed at funny, sad — and in what intensity?
Why would my feelings differ from someone else’s? Who is this “character” called Kinan — the random(?) combination of this body with that soul?
More troubling has been determining what my conscious was. Why was that conscious “aware” — powered on — and exists? Where was it before? Where will it go?
I am 28 now, and I still don’t even know how to formulate the question beyond “why is me … me?” — but I will know the answer when I see it.
And probably only then will I have the full understanding to ask the question.