It concerns no one, but this character that seems to unfold is seen very clearly. This bit of aliveness happening that is me becomes more herself, paradoxically. She seems needy, but not overly so, fairly depressed, and casting about for recognition very paradoxically indeed. It is what it is, and needs no fixing, although thoughts of repairing the psyche arise. I seem to remember thinking last night, what a burden clever people have, they are disadvantaged with understanding too much, with worshipping the mind. A prison of obfuscation. Seeing this is so simple, it confounds the mind. Everything you have ever been seeking is all around you, it is you, it is everything just exactly as it is - this seems to hold no hope for improvement, and so it doesn't. There is nothing that needs to be improved, and no one to improve it. What of the starving in Africa? What of the needless suffering of the weak and vulnerable? It is the story, just the story, put onto passionate bursting aliveness, manifesting in balance. Thoughts of helping those apparent individuals can certainly still arise, they seem to do so in "me". Apparent helping actions can be taken. Why not? No one chooses to help or ignore. Helping and ignoring happen. The story will seem to unfold, whatever it is. And it isn't the story that holds the secret, that elusive secret of it all, of life's purpose. It isn't what appears to happen or not happen in those stories. It is the existence of the story, any story, at all; of the possibility of absolutely anything. That anything exists at all is a miracle. It is both real and unreal, and unknowable. So why on Earth do I try to describe it? I don't.

Attempts at description happen.