But Life, Being Weary Of These Worldly Bars, Never Lacks Power To Dismiss Itself.

It's amazing, the freedom of this. However frightening nothingness seems, when this is recognised, it is seen that it was always the case. It's a bit like forgetting you have legs, then suddenly realising you've been walking all along, however deluded you were about not having legs. In losing yourself, you gain the whole world, only it is more than the whole world. All those questions the mind puts in the way are desperate attempts for the little contracted self to survive. How can "this" be enough? What am I going to do, if I have no will? Will I become an insufferable dickhead to my spouse? Will I encourage my children to get piercings, or go postal in the mall? How can I carry on, if nothing matters? When these questions the mind churns out dry up, then there is the possibility of something they veil. It is freeing to see that the solid world is just a construct, so much nothing, dreamed up for the fun of it, and the pain of it, and the joy of it, and the sharp, heavy grief. That specific center of "you", that sees the tree over there and hears the train passing unseen, that feels overwhelming emotions and seems lost in thought, all those sensations seemingly apprehended by a tight point of awareness, that tight point is an expansive all; it is everything, that awareness, consciousness, whatever we're calling it this morning, and it is the only thing; it is forever and endless. The strident feelings and all-consuming thoughts and multifarious sensations still seem to happen, in much the same reactive or proactive ways they always did, but they are just happening, strangely to the same mind/body bundle, yet not; the importance of the story melts away even as it is participated in all the more intensely. But these words only describe ideas, they are read, the chair chairs, and the screen screens; whatever this seems to be is the answer to every question.