This Love Feel I, That Feel No Love In This.

Whatever it is that asks to be released from the bondage of self is not in bondage. Whatever it is that seeks awakening is what is sought. The despair of futility is the song of freedom in a minor key; accepted or not, separation is the perfect opening for playing the game of coming home. All these words, thousands of them now, are just this message: the secret of life is this, just this, just as it is. It confounds the mind with its simplicity and immediacy. How can this be enough? It simply is. That which cannot see it is illusory, and that which longs for it to be seen is what is longed for. What is observed changes by being observed; what is lived, simply is. There is nowhere to go but here. There is no one who can get there, and the paradox of no one, when identity seems so solid, and is reinforced by most of the stories encountered, is difficult to grasp; in fact it can't be grasped, for that which tries to overcome it reinforces the separate identity. Whatever you seem to do or not do, life is. Whether you seem to control the story or not, it will appear to continue. However much fear there seems to be in losing the self, this life is freedom, even if the fear seems to veil it. The love that is all is all, however it appears. That which seeks itself, is already itself, so even in separation, perhaps, in this love, there is comfort.