Body-mind, subject, object, creation, none of it exists. They are moon and stars guiding a ghost ship across a sea of dreams.
We are the architects of our own ignorance. Within the empty space of an open field we construct walls of this and that, floors of me and ceilings of mine. It is a rickety, termite-ridden habitation for tenants of childhood, youth, maturity and old age. Eventually it will collapse of its own, but why wait when we already possess the tools to demolish it? "Who am I?" is the powder-charge, "not this, not this" the fuse, and intuition of truth the spark We must ignite every nook and cranny of this false, temporal structure, whittle it down brick by brick, wall by wall, until one day so little remains it simply implodes in a cloud of dust. Perhaps a cornerstone called "I" will survive. Blow it up, too. Then the dust finally settles into clarity, reality, the empty space of an open field, there all along.
We are the architects of our own ignorance. Within the empty space of an open field we construct walls of this and that, floors of me and ceilings of mine. It is a rickety, termite-ridden habitation for tenants of childhood, youth, maturity and old age. Eventually it will collapse of its own, but why wait when we already possess the tools to demolish it? "Who am I?" is the powder-charge, "not this, not this" the fuse, and intuition of truth the spark We must ignite every nook and cranny of this false, temporal structure, whittle it down brick by brick, wall by wall, until one day so little remains it simply implodes in a cloud of dust. Perhaps a cornerstone called "I" will survive. Blow it up, too. Then the dust finally settles into clarity, reality, the empty space of an open field, there all along.
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