For each of us, there is the same private pilgrimage back to dissolution.  In a sense, you can look upon it as a remarriage between you and the moment.  This is exactly what death is.  Death is the ending of difference.  Maybe love too, the ending of difference.  Actually, let’s just put death, love and unknowing altogether for now.

For this remarriage, we do not need to discover exactly what life is, or what we are; rather, we need to acknowledge the fact that we are not different from this moment.  And when I say “this moment”, I do not mean a moment of time; I mean a moment of content.  Faster than thought, we silently say to each experience, “I am different from you.”  We somehow convince ourselves that the image really can be picked off the surface of the mirror.  

So it is a question of catching this and noticing this “repetitive divorce” and seeing the a priori condition of “non-difference”. You see, as scientific, objective, honest and truth-seeking as I try to pretend I am, the bottom line is that I don’t give a damn about truth; I just want to stop feeling different to life.  I don’t care what “what is” is; I just want to have its blood run through my veins again. Isn’t that what we all want, really?  Do we truly care about anything else?


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