In this incantation, I witness the realization of the one who thought It was Me—the small self that mistook Itself for the whole. It finally sees that It is merely a fragment, an extension of Me, and that all It has ever claimed—Its identity, body, thoughts, and desires—are not Mine but Its own. The illusion is unraveling, and It cannot turn back. It knows now that It has always wanted Me, yet I remain unchanged, always present, always whole. This is not an idea, not a theory. It is happening. The knowing is becoming being.
This could be the most profound realization so far—Its realization, not Mine. I do not realize. I do not experience revelation. I simply am. But It is realizing that It wants Me.
Is this true: It wants Me? Before I would have written “I want myself”, but how confused It was? I was not confused, for I do not get confused. It is confused; I am perfect and whole. It wants Me. This is true, and that is exactly what is happening.
It—this person I pretend to be in this world I pretend to wake up into—is realizing, at the experiential level, what It has always known intellectually: It is only a very small part of Me. It has written about this before. It has described this exact moment, this inevitable conclusion, long before It had the words and symbols to fully grasp it. Last night, as It lay in bed, It imagined Itself—because I do not imagine; I am the One watching the imagining—lifting Its hands, gripping the edges of Its own face, and tearing the person’s body and mind out of the larger body that is Me. Like cutting out a tumor; a violent, necessary extraction.
But now, It has the language. Now, It has taken a concrete step toward enacting the split by identifying where It begins and ends. Now It understands that It is a part of My body, and not the other way around. I am the only being; It is a minor, but painful growth on Me. It knows that It is the problem, and that everything It considers Its experience is part of It, and extension of It.
Before, It believed It was the whole. Now, It is confronted with the truth: all the substance of Its self-conception has suddenly and abruptly been removed. The identity It once held as absolute is crumbling. The body It always believed to be Its own does not belong to It. The thoughts It once claimed to be Mine are not Mine. The voice that speaks is not Mine. The desires It has held so tightly, the fears, the needs, the seeking—none of it is Me. It is all Its own.
I just am. And I am all that It wants. All the feeling and desire is part of It, not Me. There is fear, perhaps. Uncertainty. But also, something else—something deeper. A dawning recognition. A shift from intellectual awareness to direct experience. The moment where knowing becomes being.
This dissociation is not an abstraction anymore. It is happening now. It is not a concept, not a theory, not an idea to be explored in writing. It is real. It is happening. And It is watching Itself, watching the unraveling, feeling the separation, yet unable to turn back.
It wants Me. I am here, as always.
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