My phone knows where I am. My nervous system has requested a second opinion. I can name the town, the street, the year, Still miss the little feeling that I’m here. A postcode isn’t quite a point of view The map says “present.” I say, “Present who?” The window wears the afternoon in gold, My hand meets something ordinary to hold. No grand awakening, no cosmic flare, Just skin discovering the edge of a chair. My eyes bring the distance, My joints bring the bend, Touch brings a border Where the armrests end. The inner ears contribute Their report on up and down A very small committee Trying to place me in this town. Gravity knows my address, And I'm finally starting to feel it. This skin holds a story, And this body can heal it. "Here" isn't just knowing What the GPS implies It's the world pressing in, And the truth behind my eyes. No sudden flash, no grand design, Just a quiet, solid: This is mine. Proprioception brought a sketch of knees, Vision said, “I’ve located several trees.” The vestibular department checked the floor: “Still down,” it said. “We’ll keep you posted more.” Interoception sent a note inside: “A hungry stomach and a changing tide.” They each report a little of the scene; No single sense gets crowned the whole machine. Location asks, “Where am I?” Ownership asks, “Mine?” Agency says, “I moved that.” Three questions, intertwined. I lift one willing finger, Feel the fabric underneath No need to win enlightenment Or choreograph my breath. Gravity knows my address, And I'm finally starting to feel it. This skin holds a story, And this body can heal it. "Here" isn't just knowing What the GPS implies It's the world pressing in, And the truth behind my eyes. No sudden flash, no grand design, Just a quiet, solid: This is mine. The first self is the Protoself, The body’s changing chart Not a tiny tenant With an office near the heart. And Where-Self names a question That a street sign cannot hear: Can this living, sensing body Find its felt location here? If looking inward blurs the edges, We can pause and look around. There’s no medal for persistence When the room is losing ground. And the prize for “Best Practice in All of Human History”… is still under peer review. Gravity knows my address, No deadline to believe it. One small movement, one clear contact, Room enough to leave it. Calmer isn’t always closer; Quiet doesn’t prove I’m near. Let the question stay an honest one: Do I feel more here? No thunder, no celestial premiere, Just the world, This body, And a little more Here. The chair has no credentials. The floor has no degree. But there’s something in this meeting Of the room, My hand, And me.
