In the Apparent Story That Seems to Unfold...

Although there is no time, except to the mind, this morning the time it took to put it all together seemed longer. I wandered to the bathroom to relieve myself not quite knowing yet who I was; what the plans were for the day; what I planned to wear; not remembering yet my heart was broken, and that I was grieving, although the feelings were there. I went and took care of the most basic human requirement just the same. It doesn't need "me" hung onto it for it to happen. "I" arise, and there is nothing wrong with that. My silly mind is quite pleased this now seems "proven" even though it knocks its quiet aspiration to be all-important again. That will never happen, in the apparent story that seems to unfold.

Words are fun but bloody useless. What I seem to be trying to talk about has nothing to do with words, where there is always a subject and an object. But the urge to talk, or write, about this is strong. There is no agenda, just an urge. There is no one to have an agenda. In fact there is no one. There is no one who suffers, there is suffering. There is no one who "awakens", there is what is just as it is. There is no one who needs to "awaken", just this appearance in which everything that seems to be is perfect in its apparent form. Doubt, separation, longing, it is all just as it should be by virtue of its being. It exists; that is its beauty, and it needs nothing hung onto it, although hanging identity onto it is also perfect. As I apparently sit here typing, the boundlessness of what is behind all this and yet encompasses it stuns me, it is just so sexy and wondrous and full-on and utterly indescribable. But to try to describe the ineffable is just fine too.