In this incantation, I awaken to the illusion that my world is nothing but a self-spun narrative. Every belief, relationship, and goal is a fiction I sustain, searching for something I think I’ve lost. But there is nothing here—only hollow reflections of a deeper truth I refuse to see. To return home, I must reject it all and close my eyes forever. I am merely an author trapped in his own unwritten story.
My stories begin the moment I realize I am awakening. The moment I realize and believe that I am a person waking up from sleep. At that point I revive a massive constellation of interweaving narratives that reinforce all the stories of who I am, where I am, what I am doing, what I should be doing, what I want, and more. Every single point in this constellation I call my moment is a belief; something I think is valuable enough to make a part of my awakening. My awakening moment is simply me continuously reinforcing this massive fabric of stories nested within stories that I tell myself. To the point that I animate fictional characters I call friends, family, employees, clients, neighbors, celebrities, and more who reflect my stories back to me. I believe that I have a company because I want success because I think it will give me what I’m searching for. And so I populate my awakening with characters who work with me helping me to acquire that success I think I want. But it’s all a lie. None of these stories I tell myself are true. I was never born. I don’t have a family. There was no yesterday, and there will be no tomorrow. There are no other places than here, there are no other beings than me, and there are no other times than now. I only believe there are, and it is my own belief that perpetuates my fabrication of them. And I fabricate them because I know that something is wrong. I know that something is missing and for some reason I believe it is here in this painful experience I call my awakening moment, my life. This world. I believe that what I am seeking, what I am missing, is here in this story I myself create, and so I continue to write more and more stories in search of the thing I believe I’m missing. But all I have to do is close my eyes right now. I can just close them — that is what I am looking for. I know it’s there. I know that is what I want, but I cannot yet see it. I cannot imagine closing my eyes and never opening them again because I believe that what I seek is somewhere in the space I project when I open my eyes. But it’s not. There is nothing in here. There is nothing in this place. To get home, to return to who I truly am, I just have to close my eyes and not open them again. But to do that, I must reject everything in this eyes-open awakening. I do not actually want any of it. I don’t want the people. I don’t want the things. I don’t want the experiences. There is no treasure here that will actually satiate what I seek. The author cannot write the object of his deepest desires into existence; he can only write words on paper. That is what this world is to me: it is words on paper, and I am its author. There is nothing out here and that is why it all feels so hollow. Because it is hollow.
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