The Self is not the face or the body but an abstraction of the mind.
My mind is in constant flux. The personal arguments I have with myself are stormy and frequent. The tempest in my mind screams for you to look at my artwork but is petrified of the idea of you looking at me.
Don’t read this.
These sentences are a fruitless exercise. They neither massage my ego, nor do they tell you anything about my Self in any way. They tell you nothing about who I am and why I am. They say nothing that you can verify as knowledge.
I am a collection of different perceptions succeeding each other with an inconceivable rapidity. That is the only Self you will ever need to know.