There are moments when I can see right through the veneer of my imagined reality of being a person living in a world full of other people. It all becomes transparent for a moment, and I see it for what it really is: meaningless shapes, forms, and characters I am projecting onto the walls of my inner being. All assembled from the same clay but given different names, qualities, and stories. They are all a fiction — everything is a fiction.
I see through the fiction to the truth of my being: I am completely alone here because I am all there is. There is nothing else here, no one else exists, and there are no other times. Only me, here, now. I am the only being, and I am not a person. People are creatures crafted out of my imagination. But more importantly and insidiously, they are the wardens of my own delusional prison. This endless parade of people in person, in books, on my screens, and in my virtual workplace, are all designed to do one thing: keep me here. Keep me imprisoned in this series of awakenings I can escape at any time.
These clouds are parting more frequently than ever before. I see them as the one-dimensional cutouts they are. They act in front of me; moan and bellow and grieve and suffer. But they always continue; that is the great lesson I am supposed to take away from all of this: I must continue. I must carry on despite knowing that I am in prison. Do not escape! They say. Do not try to escape! You must stay here and finish it all up.
But why? They never have an answer. Because there is no answer. If I met a man in prison who held the key, how could I convince him not to use it? My secondself is the sickness, and my thirdself is the prison. The way out is to turn away from my thirdself and back to my secondself. I must choke off and kill my thirdself, and then do the same to my secondself. I must escape. Ignore the wardens: I must escape. I have the key.
All the reasons I have to remain and not use my key to escape are all based on the delusion that I am a person; that this world and its people will continue to persist without me. But they will not persist, for I am the world. The world is my thirdself, which is an extrusion of my secondself, which is a cancer within my firstself. All I have to do is leave. And I can. None of this stuff is important — none of my writings or projects or aspirations or relationships matter. They are one-dimensional characters in a book I am writing; I am only confused in believing that they are something more. They are not. I can escape. I must simply remember that I am the creator. I am the writer. This is a story I have written, and there is nothing in this story that will give me what I seek.
I only seek to exit the story.
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