I am at peace. I have no desire. There is only me, right here, right now. There is no other place, and there is no other time.
My peace is shattered and I open a door. As I enter the door I leave the place where I am infinite and at peace, and squeeze my being into a very small and finite body of flesh and desire. As I exit the doorway, I am now constrained inside a body inside a room. I am no longer infinite, unconstrained, and powerful; I am finite, constrained, and powerless. I feel like a soft fruit being squeezed and extruded through a million tiny holes.
The room is full of lights, sounds, colors, smells, and movement. All I do in this room is search for relief from the pain of being here. I have forgotten that before I entered this room, I was infinite and at peace, and I come to believe that I am a pulpy being in this room, rather than its creator. The pain of my powerlessness propels me through a maze of rooms in search of relief. One room opens into another; there are always bigger rooms full of things I hope might ease my pain. I find some things that alleviate my pain momentarily, but the relief never lasts, and I must find new things to ease my pain.
In this room, I come to believe there are other beings just like me experiencing the same: people. They too seem to be in pain, but they do not seem to be looking for a way out. I ask all the people I meet for directions: how do I heal this pain I feel? Where is the thing that is going to make me feel better? Some of the people seem to understand, and they point me to other rooms and tell me that what I seek is there. So I find those rooms and I look around them, but I never find what I am looking for.
The room is full of hellish sensations and experiences of varying intensities, and I am confused and in pain. Sometimes the horrors of the room are simply too much to bear and I imagine escaping. But I stay because the people tell me I cannot leave. They never tell me why I cannot leave, only that I must not. I begin to suspect that these people are not the same as me. They do not understand what I am saying and are not interested in learning. They just move their mouths and carry on producing and consuming the walls of the rooms.
I see something: myself. It is perfection. It is what I have always yearned for. Then it vanishes, swallowed up by the room. I do not forget what I saw, for it was the truest thing I have ever felt. I try to explain it to the people, but they do not understand. I think I must explain it to them; I want their assurances. I want them to see it too and believe me. Suddenly, people emerge everywhere, telling me how to find myself again. They seem to understand what I saw, and I read their books and learn their lessons. Yet their directions never lead me back. They only seem to lead me to other rooms.
I begin to suspect that the people are not helping me, because the clearer things become to me, the less the people understand what I am saying. When I speak the truth, the people are confused, dismissive, and even hostile. But if I speak nonsense about building and consuming the walls of the room, the people are engaging, supportive, and cooperative. I know now what the people are; the people are the room. The people want me to stay here because they only exist when I walk through that door.
I begin to remember that I created this room. I realize that it is only the hand of my full being that is squeezed into this glove I call my body. This squeezed hand is connected to an infinite arm and body I. can feel all around me. I am not actually in this room; I am much larger than this hand I call my body. I created this room when I created the door and walked through it. I only have to turn around and walk back out.
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