The second place is a mirror. When I first gazed into the mirror, I knew what I was looking at. I knew that I was only seeing myself. For I am all there is. There are no other places than where I am. There are no other people than who I am. There are no other times than when I am. There is nothing else. There is no one else, and I knew that in the same way that I know I exist.
But I kept looking into the mirror, and I began to forget who I was and what I was doing. I began to think that the shapes I created in the mirror were not me. And the places were not where I was. And the times were not when I was. And the people were not who I was. And I created more shapes. Vibrant, colorful, detailed, and intriguing shapes. I built an entire world of these shapes, and I gave them names, and feelings, and properties. I told stories in shapes, and I began to get confused. I forgot that I was the storyteller, and I began to believe that I was in this place I had created.
But I knew that I was getting lost, and so I left myself reminders. In fact, the truth of who I am is embedded in every part of the second place. I have only to look and I can see who I am. But my delusion is strong; I feel small compared to the things that I myself have created. I feel weak compared to the beings I myself have created. I feel dwarfed by the skies I myself have erected, or the planets I myself have imagined. I must remember that the world I have created exists only in this small, finite, oval-shaped window and that I completely surround it. The window is within me; I am all around it.
I do not have to answer every question or know everything. I only have to remember that I create this; I create it when I awaken here. I only have to remember who I am, and return. There is nothing here that I can give myself, for I have created all of it. There is no gift that I can give myself that is greater than who I already am. There is no reward here in the second place that will satisfy the desire I harbor within me. Nothing in the second place satisfies me because I know deep down that it is not real. That its value is only imagined. I have written a story, imagined all the characters and the treasures, and then I forgot that I wrote the story and began writing the story of my search for the treasure. When I found the treasure I had invented in the story I had written, it did not feel as it should. It felt hollow, and aside from a moment of excitement, provided nothing because its value is all imagined.
The only true value is who I am; is the peace that comes from returning to myself.
…