
Descartes was a moment behind himself.
"I think, therefor I am," is a non sequitur, a self- contradiction. Being and thought are absolutely separate. Being is not a thought, and thought cannot grasp Being.
We can only form a thought of what has already past. We cannot form a concept of what
is.
As soon as I think, I make a graven image of what I just experienced: a snap-shot from history. And I am as far removed from one moment ago as I am from the age of the dinosaurs.
Thought has no Being whatsoever: the past has no presence. Every thought, even the most cherished religious, philosophical, or historical concept, is etched in the brain by a finger of fire that has already burned the past to ashes and moved on. The light of consciousness is alive but the ashes of thought are dead.
Then what is
imagination, one may ask? A useful tool, but only a synthesis of memories. When I imagine, I fabricate an amalgam of past impressions. The mythic centaur is just a dead horse and a long-vanished bird I once saw, now combined into a fantasy.
Likewise, any
I which Descartes discovers by thinking is only a bundle of past impressions, imagined as a living entity. Yet this ego has no more Being, no more presence, than the recollection of a dream.
"Am" is always present, with no compulsion to form a concept of presence. The naked clarity of "Am" cannot be contained or defined by a memory. I can Be, but I cannot think, "I Am."