To Your Huge Store Wise Things Seem Foolish And Rich Things But Poor.

It is really quite amazing, reality, or whatever you care to label it. Just pure being, just whatever it is that seems to be happening. Every apparent mind/body/brain thingy has it, in fact, is it. It is life whittled down to the absolute core. Livingness, just as it is. You are everything you see, feel, touch, think, hear, smell, and taste; the separate something that this all seems to happen to is just a reference point, and certainly makes things interesting, but is wholly unnecessary. It is a big ask, to abandon this persona, this interesting construct that has such an captivating story, full of pathos and delight; the main character in a fabulous or traumatic storyline, charismatic or unassuming, bigger-than-life or quite ordinary; much loved or similarly loathed. Yet there is no one anything is happening to. Happenings seem to occur; they may be claimed, or not. A time-dependent story is just a small part of All, and All is what we are. The sweet little frightened construct that everything seems to happen to, arises in All. We are not that. We are All, or One, or God, or whatever label seems best; this has nothing to do with words or ideas, which are a small part of All. Even these words are not what is spoken of, even if they are more to the point than most. Every apparent person, every evident persona, is All if stripped back to what the ego arises in. Everything, livingness, beingness, aliveness, All, One, whatever it is named, is all that there is. It is what you are. And, if the ask is too big to give up the tiny person that it seems to happen to, with their interesting story of struggle and suffering and joy and elation, it doesn't matter. You are everything, whether it is seen or not.