There is no such thing as ‘I’.
There is no I.
There is only isness, ising.
There is only beingness, being.
There is only awareness, awareing.
Everything else is a fiction,
A delicious movie called Self.
But we think the players define us
And the libretto, too limiting.
We get too attached to the plot
And lose sight of the stuff of which it’s made.
There are no things in this room.
There are no people.
Not even you.
Just the soft hum of creation,
The sound of cars on a wet road.
Music of city sirens.
The heavy buzz of body.
The flitting narrative.
All one thing itself –
The here and now – your real identity –
No one else you could ever be.

Nothing else have you ever been.

Release the dam of resistance to what is.

Identify with nothing.

Open and surrender
Until there is nothing left.

The thing that then remains –
That is real.

That must be your self.



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