Every thought I have is a passing thought. It is not real. It is not substantiated. It is not significant.
Nothing I create is without vital energetic pause, collected from the whole of the collective unconscious and collective experience of what I interpret as ‘past.’
None of my thoughts belong to me; they are merely free-flowing water, much like the substance that carries the debris in the rivers, and much like the substance that houses the lives of many.
Nothing is fresh or spoiled but rather set upon a plate of nourishing discovery. I can attend to my thoughts as I do refreshments or entertainer’s mastery: nibble, devour, gorge, detest, delight.
Whatever I choose is neither right nor wrong, nor justified. It is simply where I am in that moment.
If I gather myself into a netted wonderment, and swim without limbs, drowning in my own discoveries, so be it. If I graduate from the banks of the river and run freely through the nearby forest of endless mystery, so be it.
It is I who ultimately choses. The I that stands significantly behind the all of me and watches, as this so-called body and mind travels through the hindrances of life.
It is not this something separate or someone beyond that exists as the constant observer; rather I am he. I am the wanderer and wonderer, remaining steadfast outside the realm of trappings, so named ‘reality.’
Slumber is a necessary component to my suffering self.
When I cannot slumber deeply then I shall remind my body to stop. To stop completely what it is partaking in and who it is partaking in. For always this mind travels somewhere with some definite and finite object and objection. Even when I am not privy to the inner-workings, I become the constant companion of the streams of query and interposing debate.
Best to give us all a break: the body, the spirit, the mind, and see what dreams may come. Let the subconscious realm run rapid and deteriorate the substantial reality to bring forth the avenues of undiscovered breathing beneath the labyrinth of rationale.
I have come to see myself as whole in and of myself, and in the same measure complete with the knowing I am part of the collective whole.
My thoughts are others’ thoughts. My passion shared by many. My sorrow shared by most.
Nothing I think, feel, experience, detect, decipher, insinuate, or create is superior or inferior. I am simply a part of the makings of the entire infrastructure, so named ‘humanity.’
Nothing I do or say is unique, and nothing I feel, think, or transpire is in isolation.
Once I accept I am not alone, no longer, and never was alone, then I can simultaneously detect I am also not in suffering without the all.
Every single one of my emotions has been and will be experienced by someone else. If not a thousand upon a thousand times before, then soon somewhere, in someone.
To think I am alone in my suffering and misery is the biggest thievery of our days. Nothing is in isolation. Everything works together, gives and takes, responds and deciphers, as a living breathing organism of life.
It is best for me, if best be, to move with the ocean of emotions as one would move as ship captain receiving retreat for the coming days, resting submerged in the comfort of the feather bed, whilst another trusted one steers the crew asunder.
If I aim to please myself, the only measure is to sweetly surrender to the coming storms and waves, to rest the same in rough waters as I do in gentle moonlit days.
Nothing is to be determined and controlled by me. Absolutely nothing. Receiving myself at rest, allowing myself to let go of the clutching and steering, and ways that demands route, is the only feasible course.
Make way for the ship in a manner that is not of demanding. Make way for the ship in which whatever way we travel, we go freely.
I know no answers.
Nothing I succumb to in theory or recognition is a truth.
I need only look back a span of time from now to see what I was then is not what I am now. And today, as the recognition of self becomes exponential in reflection and understanding, I see with each passing hour, I have already transformed from what I thought I knew to what I do not know.
My emotions are at bay, waving up upon the shore. I am in a state of responding to stimuli and stimuli responding to me.
I am neither able to claim myself stagnant from one moment to the next, as I am neither able to reclaim a former part of self. There is no turning back to what I was a second ago, and no way of knowing what I will be in the next moment.
I am at constant. Nothing I do or say is actually me. For me will no longer exist with the blink of an eye.
I cannot become attached to something that is fluid and part of the whole. There is first and foremost no part to collect. To find myself would be equivalent to trying to take hold of the piece of the ocean that represented the whole of self, the whole of my established existence.
There is no place from which self can be collected. I cannot scoop up a part of me without separating me from the whole. I do not end.
If I was to siphon the whole of the ocean into the sum of a god-size cup, this collection would still not represent me in completion. For what of the water gathered in the sky? What of the clouds? The rain? The melancholic mist?
All is me. For I am the all.
I am in constant rejuvenation and cyclic metamorphosis. Biologically, energetically, spiritually, and naturalistically, I am a beating, pulsating part of the many parts that expand and create the whole.
I am incomprehensible and impossible to capture, see, or imagine fully. And in this way I am free. For there is nothing outside myself to search for.
I am already a part of that which I think I need and think I desire to discover. All is me. I am the all.
I am already complete.