There’s No Way of Telling, as Far as I Can Tell

When I learned that wishing I had faith in the One was the One wishing I had faith in myself, I no longer needed to know why I happened to me anymore because I’d learned it was the little, more unpopular me that was truly huge.

Then years spent celebrating the small made me wish more and more I hadn’t left the large behind, since, in the blink of an eye whole galaxies of emotion and thought became a kind of painting I could pan away and zoom out from, a power that only reminded me of how alone, distant and shut off I’d become.

This reminds me of the time after meditation I told my teacher I thought I’d had an experience of thoughtlessness, and we both started laughing, having realized I’d totally contradicted myself, though maybe what we were really laughing at was just how unreal perception and the idea of having a self was,

that and maybe laughing is easier than screaming upon realizing that one’s existence can’t be found, even when it is physical.

What is all this leading to? Is my journey about discovering a big, hairy glob of uncertainty to come to rest upon? Or is it about arriving at a nondual experience of consciousness where meditation can be felt breathing the me the way I had to crouch like and lunge as fast as a frog in order to catch one?

There’s no way of telling, as far as I can tell, even if sometimes I think I can glimpse myself floating underneath my seeing in a time before stars.

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