Another day of incongruency. Been so low now, apparently for a couple of months. The bereavement is immense, yet bearable. I seem to mourn everything I ever thought was my life, having seen that nothing matters, it is a dream. But the dream is a miracle by virtue of it's very (seeming) existence. Mere (apparent) existence is its beauty, be what arises sorrow or joy or cruelty or kindness or pain or euphoria. It is all impeccably in balance. Yet incongruously, "I" am in the desert, waiting to fall in love with it all. It is love, complete and whole, utterly accepting of all apparent manifestion; it is all apparent manifestation. The words fall flat. It cannot reject itself, it is itself. And I seem to reach out, grasping for some words, and find that no one can identify, despite being it all "themselves". Utterly alone, yet not existing. So low, so low. Nothing exists, despite appearances.