There Is No Story.

Despite all that seems to happen, there is no story. There is no time in which a story can unfold. We seem to be creatures of linear time, learning from our mistakes (or not), waxing nostalgic for a past where things seemed better, or yearning for a future when this contingency or that expediency will happen, and life will, at last, be happier. We crawl into the memories that arise or the speculation of the future and think that it proves that things have, indeed, happened before, and things will, absolutely, happen again. There are cartloads of regret for things done wrong, and barrels of planning for doing the next right thing. Yet all there ever is, is this. This is all we ever have, all we ever are. The timeless void that is this - not now, for now suggests then - is all there is. Perhaps it can be labeled presence. All is presence, whatever form it seems to take. Even if there is a sense of separation, you live in boundless infinite light. The sense of separation only hides it, it doesn't destroy it; this is eternal being, it is all there is. The dropping away of a separate person - which is, after all, only a fragile concept - simply reveals what has always been there, what always is, what is. It doesn't change what appears to happen, but what appears to happen is seen for what it is. Boundless, changeless being. You don't have to do a thing. Here it is. If there is still some sense of being apart, it doesn't matter, for that is just as it must be. For goodness' sake, enjoy it. Just relax and be. Everything will still appear to go on without you just fine.