It was easier to write about yourself and your experiences in the third person, the man thought, as he drank his first cup of green tea, made before bed the night before.  It was also easier, and better on the stomach, to drink soda water than regular.  He took his pills and vitamins over the course of sitting out on the back porch with a visit from the grey cat for some sunlight on a call fall day, then as he made a tea of muddled lime with turmeric, cracked the eggs on a plate gently, the stove on low, easing them in, yokes whole (botched last time), with the burger patty reheating in the toaster oven with their caramelized onion and fresh broccoli.   He'd made a Safeway run the night before, before it started raining, getting an Uber cab home, then still with difficulty sleeping after running around on a busy Sunday evening at full pace.

There were the medications for mental well-being, manly well-being, stomach well-being, respiratory well-being, for calmness and for immune support.  A shingles shot would be a good idea, and there was also the barnacle on the side of the top of his scalp to get looked at at some point, and there would be the shower before work, on top of breakfast.  The bike was left at work, and so, sunny day, why not walk.

But it was easier to write about yourself in the third person, anonymously, and that fit in with the Zen thing about personal non-importance and the simplest of ego structures.  It was not the individual who was important, but the record of the human experience.