My mind doesn’t believe anything. It doesn’t
understand its own existence either. It cannot explain anything. Thus, for the
mind, all is void of meaning, for it lacks understanding of it. Is the mind,
then, actually void of meaning in itself? And thus disposable?
But of course not. The mind is a wonder. What
is the mind?
I wonder.
If not mystery.
Then why would God listen to it?
I’d love a show, He says.
And we play.
We act.
We paint.
We sing.
He’s sitting front row, but the light’s on us,
so we can’t see Him.
This is a dream.
It feels so warm.
When are we leaving?
You can leave each moment, because each moment is breathtaking.
Manifesting beauty through a dream.
We are intonations of God.
But there are no strings.
Somehow, we have found our freedom.
This is so beautiful, I cannot comprehend it,
says the mind.
Shh, says God. Just watch.
