a play

Is my being, my body and its awareness one of the mystery’s dream machines and am I its dream and do I take control naturally?

Is life a wonderful tragic comedy, a special joke, a play that goes on all day long whether I know it or like it or not?

Can identity die in a sense but not in the dead buried and gone sense? If so, what am I afraid of? Am I a scared-y-cat?

Is it possible as the sages say for the identity to allow itself to be deprived of words for conscious periods and as a result eventually have awareness deepen to a point where existence reveals itself?


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