“Who am I?” asked the vase.
The vase was beautiful, especially beautifully shaped by the potter and its decoration was wonderfully unique.
“Am I the clay?” asked the vase, but it knew immediately that this could not be the whole reality.
After all, anything else could have been made from this clay.
“Am I my good looks?” asked the vase, but it remembered that its outside knew nothing of its inside.
“Am I the content?” asked the vase, but it remembered that it could have asked the same question if there was water in the vase, and even if it was poured out.
“Am I the empty space surrounded by my form?” asked the vase. But I cannot be the inner space separated from the outer one, since my surfaces touch at the same time what is inside and what is outside.
“Would I be my form?” asked the vase.
But if I were the form, who asks this question? And do you see the form from the outside as well as from the inside?
“Who am I?” asks the vase, as it falls down on the ground, breaking into countless pieces.
“Who am I?” asks the vase, as the potter’s hand sinks back into the spinning clay, shaping both outside and inside with his hands.
“Who am I?” I ask.
