Nothing is lacking but idea of lack itself
I travel now on a twisting journey.
A journey through shadows and glimmering passageways.
A journey of unlearning; of discarding and derobing myself of all that is not
what I am.
A journey to the fount of silence.
It is a journey that hungers for meaning.
A journey that finds meaning when the search for meaning
A journey that reveals to me that nothing is lacking but the idea of lack itself.
A journey that shows me that attachment is not to things of the world, but rather
to thoughts of things of the world.
I watch the journey through the mind.
And over the contours of the body's map of varied senses.
But I am not here.
I am not of the body or of the mind.
I am in the stillness beyond time.
Yet I am not inactive.
I am the very essence of activity.
I am being.
I am the thinker.
He who is not a creation of his thoughts.
He who is master of the mind and the body.
He who is an extension of reality.
Inseperable from the source.
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