For Nothing Had Begot My Something Grief; Or Something Hath The Nothing That I Grieve.

Writing about this, whatever this is, requires using concepts to dissipate concepts. The imperative is to describe the indescribable, pure existence, the thing that is whether thoughts are interpreting it or not. It's rather like painting a picture of someone eating an orange in order to describe an orange's flavour, or looking very closely at a mountain spring, marveling at its wetness and freshness, rather than going over and scooping up a drink of it. Contradictions abound the describing of it, for language is necessarily dual, and having mutually exclusive (yet simultaneously occurring) opposites is the nature of concepts. One moment you may read that there are no paradoxes, all is one; in the next book it may say that the appearance of time and the nonexistence of it is an unresolvable paradox.

It doesn't matter what you read, it is the reading that is this. Thoughts are much maligned in the search for enlightenment. Yet thoughts are this too; they cannot take you down the wrong path; there is no wrong path. It doesn't matter at all what is happening, how it is interpreted (or not) and what feelings come up about it all. Life is here, always. It doesn't matter what form it is taking, or appears to take. Life is life. Whatever arises is the same thing, in a different guise. Whatever arises is equally valid. And the mind will have a heyday interpreting, judging, comparing, and ferreting out relative truth and worth at every apparent new happening. But that interpretation, judgment, comparison and relativity are simply what is arising. The thoughts and feelings seem to come and go. They might be anything. They are of no importance, and they can seem fun and stimulating, or miserable and destructive. Whatever they may be, they are not what you are.

Trying too hard and desperate frustration may be the best labels for some thoughts and feelings that arise. Relaxing can come up too. Realising that the thing that wants death of the ego is the ego itself, and the ego has lots of problems with this, can rise to compassion, which can seem to ease the whole process (that isn't really happening at all). There is no prize that awaits; nothing can await; everything, infinity, eternity, and boundlessness are already the case. And if boundlessness is not obvious, then exploring the microcosm of life might reveal it, at last, to be a microcosm. Perhaps when "you" are least expecting it.