I feel… and that’s a strange thing.

Is it a thing?

Is it a stranger?

I think… That’s even stranger.

A companion from much further away.

Does he come from beyond?

Can a line really be drawn to the beyond?

Can the distance in me be measured?

I wonder… That’s recursive.

I want to snap.

I don’t know why.

The recursiveness suggests an endless loop.

There is no beyond.

There is no snap.

There is nothing.

No thing is there.

Because the thing cannot be placed.

It is everywhere.

Is it a feeling?

Is it not here, with me?

Who am I?

This is not the snap.

There is no flipside.

Here is the flipside.

But it’s not me.

The feeling is…



Too many certainties block the stranger.

Can he break through the wall?

There is no wall.

I am the wall.

There is nothing underneath.

There is nothing above.

I’m just a block.

A stone in the path to nowhere.

There is no path.

The way is a wave.

It flows nowhere.

The flow cannot snap.

The feeling cannot stop.

Why do I think?

Where does it lead me?

There is no goal.

Yet the path is ever leading.

To nothingness.

While I live I travel.

It’s that simple?

On and off.

Is there a switch?

The flow is ever switching.

The switch is not on and off.

The switch is more or less.

Yet I believe in death.

I believe in an end.

But why, if there is no start?

I don’t remember my start.

Doesn’t mean there isn’t one.

I won’t remember my end.

Or will I?

Is it just the delusion of time that’s confusing me?

Am I never, but only here?

I’m just removing definitions one by one.

What is left?


Why not remove that too?

It is empty without all contextual definitions.

I am empty.

That’s not helping.

There has to be something.

No, that’s just a figure of speech.

A metaphor, a word, a metaphysical road sign.

Pointing out the road.

But the road is everything.

It is all directions.

It leads nowhere and everywhere.

I’m not getting anywhere.

My thoughts are strange.

They are alien to my road map.

Where is the real road?

Why am I stuck with only the map?

I guess that’s the answer.

Accept the map.

Because if you study it close enough…

You see the world.

The map will change.

The roads be redrawn.

The waterfalls misplaced.

It will crumble into dust.

Copies of it will survive.

Different, but similar.

But the world is constant.

Yet I am not content.

I wish to see the world with my own eyes.

Hope is my compass.

It will not die before me.

It will die with me.

All these people.

All these maps.

They’re flying them wherever they go.

Is hope the problem?

Is hoping being?

Still more redundant definitions.

I’m tired of this loop.

Show me reality.

Is it death?

Is reality empty?

I do not wish for emptiness.

Maybe I cannot both have the cake and eat it.

Maybe that’s just a figure of speech.

Will this ever end?

Life is but a dream within an eternal night’s sleep.

Waking up is not an option.

Reality is not the morning.

The map of dreams is all I am.

The feeling is different.

The alien thoughts have become mine.

The map of dreams is flowing.

Maybe I should just go with it.

But to what end?

Living, hoping, I need a purpose.

But there is none.

It’s just a dream.

Now I dream of dreams.

Reality is beyond me.

I feel trapped.

A pointless feeling, cuz I will never see the real world.

My thoughts are exhausted.

They lead no further.

What to do?

I’ll keep hoping, in vain.


I’ll live without hope.

Just go with the flow.

It seems impossible.

I want further insights.

Pointless insights.

No, I will keep hoping for that one last insight.

I’ll keep searching for the waterfall.

Not on the map.

I want to bathe in the real water.

Maybe waking up is possible.

Not dying.

Really living.

The mind dissolves.

When the dream snaps.

The glass shatters.

The flood comes pouring in.

I dream of it being bright.

Post Scriptum (The morning after actually)

Śūnyatā is the emptiness, the real reality. No, Buddha got this wrong, because the metaphysical world is not the real world. The metaphysical world has no “essential, enduring identity” and deconstructed it is simply empty. The real world though, is beyond us. At best we can glimpse at in when our minds are perfectly in tune with the flow of the universe, but even that might be a fantasy.  The vajra, the thunderbolt and diamond, would be that union between body and mind or universe and mind or body and universe or mind and God or whichever delusion one prefers in this relationship. The infinite spectrum of the white, transparent diamond is the filter through which transcendence forms the metaphysical experience out of the physical electrons. Though, if electricity is thought, then what is magnetism, the only thing that can bend electricity? Actually, a iron rod can lead electricity wherever it points too. And not to mention the quarks that make up it all. And where does that leave photons, the infinitely(!!!) small parts of the electromagnetic wave we call the universe? It’s nice to think though, that when the thunder strikes the ground (normally lightning occurs higher up in the atmosphere where we can’t see it) that’s the thought of mother earth communicating with its body. And how can we know if the earth is conscious or not? If it is, it will use its body to form words communicating to us or to other planets that it is a thinking being and since we are its body and we form words… of course, ultimately our language limits our understanding and the meaning of words like conscious seem like metaphors, just like everything is in the mind. I would like to feel the diamond bolt rush through me, not in a sexual way, just mentally, although it seems like a typical phallic idea and I still dislike the fact that I’m a male philosopher, because even though that’s just a construction it potentially reduces all my efforts to something very base in human nature. After all, I can’t rid myself of the thought that I am DNA, that in my body there are 1 000 000 000 000 copies of one single, huge molecule (3 000 000 000 base pairs (like e.g. C5H5N5-C5H6N2O2, imagine having 1 500 000 000 000 000 000 000 of those) long) created from half my mother’s molecule and half my father’s molecule, with a few tiny mutations.


P.P.S. (Written the night after the morning)

The phenomenal world (the perception) and the noumenal world (Nirvana/Plato’s idea world) are not real. Maya, the material reality (but not as we perceive it) is real. The mind is only a creation of our language, just like soul and angels and desires. This is our inadequate language’s way of describing what is happening inside the body. Language is the transcendence between inside and outside, between me and the 6.8 billion clones, between me and God, between all two-folds of duality. Language is responsible for the discrepancy, the rift, for duality at all, for inconsistency, for similarity, for the idea of 1, 2 and 0, language is responsible for everything. Look in the mirror and you see a monkey. There is no mind world circling the head like a pink cloud. The cloud illusion is just a reiteration of the same oneness going round and round in your head, over and over, in a myriad of ways, forming more words and thoughts and connections than you can save on your neurochemical hard drive. Look at the monkey. Why not accept it as it is? All the words we use, like thinking, being, existing, experiences, feeling, et cetera are just novel noumena for what we already see clearly in the mirror, that there is a monkey, it does exist, it does think, we know this. The language (or thought) is created only when something has to be communicated between two people, so the transcendence is created by and/or creates duality at the same time. That’s the thing about transcendence, it does not play by the rules. Anyway, stop whatever you’re doing, I mean why build a huge fantasy language just to try to understand being when we’re already being?



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