Who, me?

As long as you believe you exist this will continue to be a problem. The nature of problems that stem from our mind is that we carry them with us everywhere we go. Like glasses, they frame what we see, using a lens to correct it for our mind’s eye. In this way, the dissolution of the self is the final step to breaking the refraction that causes us to draw parallels where none existed. 


Such a reductive word. It’s easy to read this and begin to pursue and unbeing – to begin to find ways to unbecome. This, while natural, would still only be rooted in the idea that you exist. That you, the primary driving agent, exist as a player within this environment and have a certain degree of control over what is happening. Which, while partially true, is also an illusion. 

And this is the problem. That things pretend to be concrete. That truths pretend to be absolute. That we either exist or we don’t. So much so that it’s hard to imagine a world where all the things exist in scattered fragments. That, if you keep going, there is no “you,” that is completely and totally owned by you. Every piece that you hold dear you found along the way. Like a flame it was shared, never diminishing at the source, but growing within you until it was warm enough to light another. We are all just in custody of a collection of flames. Yet we are neither the custodians, nor the flames. So how can we exist except as temporary moments of realisation in a sea of phenomena, ferrying whatever bits of the past the present has blown in our general direction into the future. 

Of what use is it for a single drop to cling to dropness, when it could let go into being the ocean?

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