Imagination
This is the key. The secret is held so perfectly that I cannot even see it while I am holding it. But the same could be said of my own body. I have trillions of cells that all obey me as if I were their master—which, by all accounts, I am. And even this community is strange to itself. A single cell likely believes itself to be just that: a single cell—not one among trillions making up the body of one man. And here I sit, thinking myself one, rather than a slew—a legion. And as the governor of this one body, I have no idea what any one of my cells is presently up to. In fact, some are dying as I write this, and I am no worse off. I somehow believe that consciousness is the critical bit. As long as I carry on thinking I am me, I am okay with a haircut, a gland removal, glasses, or even clothing. I wear clothing over a body, which I wear over skin, which I wear over muscles and fat, which I wear over bones. I fill this thing with fluids and fuel and ride around in it. Oh, so I...