Happiness is continuity.  Self is continuity.

Not the quasi-continuity temporarily created and held together by thought – but the continuity that predates thoughts – the constant hum of reality itself.

From the vantage point of thought, reality seems dis-continuous and ultimately incompatible with individual continuity. But from the vantage point of reality, individual continuity seems to obscure a deeper sense of continuity and union – a story of continuity overlaying real continuity.  It is the effort of individual continuity that puts a filter or divide between observer and obvserved.  It is as if, in this division, we don’t get to enjoy the feeling of the light going all the way through and landing on the retina.  When we look up skyward, we don’t get to truly feel the fathomlessness of the heavens because the effort of constantly projecting outwards in time our own lifespans is really about maintaining our separateness – so we pull back and withdraw from anything that we could accidentally fall into.

As our remaining life as we estimate it, seems to shorten and death draws nearer – the problem of these two incompatible kinds of continuity can become more pressing.  In my case, it has always been pressing.  My despair at my shortening life inevitably seems to trip a switch and I flip over a smaller, more limited kind of continuity to the larger, realer kind.


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