That Spirit of His In Aspiration Lifts Him From The Earth.

What of the story, then. What seems to unfold simply is, yet the mind plays, the mind delves, the mind seeks a pattern and a goal. It simply seeks; there is no one seeking. The person we think we are, the bundle wrapped around being, the sweet construct that laughs and hurts and ponders and wonders, that person we take to the therapist or we bring to the candlelit table looking for love, that we nurture or we lambaste as never good enough, is of no importance, as fragile and fleeting as a child's game of Let's Pretend. What it is that seems to do these things, is just what is, so being may see itself; and there is nothing wrong with it. Whatever it is that seems to be, is what is looked for; whatever twists and turns the story makes, saturated with import and significance, fraught with meaning and purpose and mysterious synchronicity, mean nothing. There is no way to stop it; trying to stop it supports it, intensifies it; life will do as it pleases, and there is no implication or purpose in any of it. There is only this, however it is defined. This eternal moment of reality is all there is, all "we have"; yet we cannot truly claim it. There may be great urges to improve the story, to make good, to feel better, to make things better for humanity, to relieve suffering; yet what is, is what is, and in the story, suffering seems to diminish when that story isn't taken so seriously. These urges can be followed or not. There is no choice, despite the appearance of options. In the end, the story may be improved, but the improving isn't the goal. There is no goal, save being; and what is sought is right here, right now, just what is, because there isn't anything else that truly exists.