To Leave For Nothing All Thy Sum Of Good.

While the dreamer still dreams of being separate, it is anathema to even think of leaving it all behind. The idea that everything you ever believed in, everything you ever valued, and all the treasures of life meaning nothing is very hard to take. The separate self will do a lot not to die. Yet paradoxically, this separate self is just oneness, separate-selfing. This is beyond any idea of right and wrong, or good and evil. Yet all the complex and dark, twisted paths that individuals seem led down by their (often immutable) beliefs are just as they should be, and are as meaningless as anything else. Purpose may arise, but there is no purpose to life. Meaning may come up, but life, as a story, is meaningless. The meaning is a shining, obvious thing, the salient quality of everything that seems to manifest. My little dream-self knows she is dreaming, but the dream unfolds very much as it always did, with perhaps less trouble, and certainly what trouble there is remains unclaimed. Strangely, the values and the way I live seems more useful, but this is not the goal; there is no goal. There is no one who could have a goal, and if a goal arises, the apparent process of attaining it or perhaps failing to is sweet in its playful, intrinsically fulfilling nature. Even bitterness, short-lived, is notably apropos. I seem to remember a tumbling feeling of despair when I realised that the ups and downs of my seemingly extraordinary life were empty, yet in their emptiness, were somehow even more profound. Yet any memories that seem to come up, rather than proving time, belie it; any memory is a memory remembered now. All the good and all the bad I thought that I had done is of nothing. And all the good and bad that seem to arise, are different faces of unconditional love.