I have everything I need to know everything. What I lack is my trust that I have everything I need. Until I trust that I have everything I need to know everything, I will doubt who I am.
The simplest test of my conviction is to close my eyes. The world disappears (my thirdself). It is no longer there. When I open my eyes it is back again. This simple action reveals my infinite power and control over the world I wrongly believe I am within. It is my own action that creates and destroys the world. I am the author.
If I am ill, doubt what is actually happening, is in fact happening. That the world is beginning an ending with my own will. And instead, I conjure up a story that this world persists when I close my eyes, despite my own experience of it disappearing. I imagine a story where I am only a small observer in a massive, persistent world full of other observers who are not me. This is all imaginary, but such is the depth of my illness that I do not even recognize my own power to turn this story on and off. Instead, I insist that this world of pain and suffering is in fact something larger than and containing me.
But it does not contain me. The world cannot close its eyes and blink me out the way I can close my eyes and blink out the world.
The degree to which I can see and understand my own omnificence in closing and opening my eyes is the degree to which I have begun fighting my illness.
I can do this in another way too. I can mix milk and coffee together. It is I who mixed those, just like it is I who created this mountain full of cow herders. All of it is my own doing, my own creation.
But then the illness whispers to me: “but how are these colors mixing?”. That innocent voice convinced me that unless I can sing a song about the shapes in the mug where the milk and coffee have been mixed, I cannot truly understand it. And my ill, delusional self says “aha! Something I do not know!”. And then I set about asking the questions, and I create all the little people who show up to tell me how little I know. I create them by asking, and then hide them in books, stories, videos, and texts that never fully answer my questions and only confirm my conviction that I do not know. That there is something to know, but I do not know it. That is how it works: I believe I do not know, then I find everything I need to keep on believing that.
But what is bigger? That I created all of this by being? By opening and closing my eyes? By mixing together the coffee and milk? Or knowing how to sing a song about it? Knowing how to re-explain what I created? Creating is much larger than repeating. Than explaining.
Every explanation within my creation is inferior to my act of creation. When I am Ill, I have forgotten who I am, and that I have created this.
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