There is a feeling within my body that my mind is assigning words to… words in a pattern that are old and rubbed in the oil of memories gone by. There is the sense of continuity, that nothing is new, when in actuality it is altogether new and fresh, but my mind, which is rooted in the past, cannot see the newness of every single second. One says that this is life, this is experience, but it is not… not truly. It is a type of life, a life that is lived secondhand, a life that is repetitive and clothed in the rags of that which has already passed. There is no vibrancy in it. It is an existence, not a living.
So, what is one to do? How does one break free? How does one penetrate the barrier into the present moment, thus leaving the past behind?
It is a realm of which nothing can really be said, it can only be pointed to. Breadcrumb trails can be left for those who wish to follow. The trail is a paradox. It leads nowhere. It is a full stop, and yet it is the gateway to life itself, which has always been there, never lost, and is waiting in totality and wholeness for us to awaken.
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