Time Is A Fiction

Time is a complete fiction. There is nothing that makes any sense when it comes to time. Memory is relative, ten years ago can seem like yesterday and last night can seem like an eternity. Human beings are always attempting to quantify existence. It makes no sense. Reality, what is, can not be quantified. To quantify reality is to remove oneself from it and exist in a pseudo-world, a realm of concepts, removed from actual experience. Direct contact with reality is something that is immediate. There is no time, whatsoever. When time has ceased, thought has ceased to be an unbridled whirlwind. Thought then assumes the role of a tool for operating within the field of form. It is not the definer of reality through the past.
So, up to this point, life has moved, and it is only the mind that has had an opinion about all of it. The mind generates the identity that suffers and feels the sympathetic pain from the past. It is the identity that sets up the fears and walls that creates the misery that is rampant throughout the world today. It is the river of human suffering that is flowing since time began. It is the river of the dead human past. It is the collective human being.
The human being as a collective? There’s something new. So much emphasis put upon each person to be separate, that their thoughts are truly from their own experience and from their own heads. That we are not swimming in a network of human experience and often, human pain. The robotic programming to react in certain ways is all pre-loaded in to the emotional DNA of every person. The perception of the environment selects the genes that are activated. Who is it then who is perceiving the environment? Is there a perceiver? Is not the perceiver the perceived?
The answer to that is the end of all suffering.