I exist. And in another sense, I do not. Consciousness supersedes the physical.
I am always mediocre. I dabble in everything, but master nothing. Why this drive to achieve greatness, to be visible? I am lying to myself. To be is to be perceived; I want to be recognized -- to know I exist.
I am growing into the path before me. Everything is deja vu; it always has been. What defines tangible reality? Are my dreams any less real? Sometimes they seem more so than waking life.
Time is an illusion. All that exists is the single instantaneous moment of creation. This moment of existence speeds and slows according to the perceptions of the individual. All moments are intersecting qualities of the original moment.
I let my mind wander too much. My insides are constantly fighting. Facets of the same self, battling-- opposite and opposing. Will one part ever win? Or will another part rise to usurp yet again? How can I call my self the same as it was, when it is so entirely different? THE SELF DOES NOT EXIST.
Aether.
Abyss.
Aum.
I am always mediocre. I dabble in everything, but master nothing. Why this drive to achieve greatness, to be visible? I am lying to myself. To be is to be perceived; I want to be recognized -- to know I exist.
I am growing into the path before me. Everything is deja vu; it always has been. What defines tangible reality? Are my dreams any less real? Sometimes they seem more so than waking life.
Time is an illusion. All that exists is the single instantaneous moment of creation. This moment of existence speeds and slows according to the perceptions of the individual. All moments are intersecting qualities of the original moment.
I let my mind wander too much. My insides are constantly fighting. Facets of the same self, battling-- opposite and opposing. Will one part ever win? Or will another part rise to usurp yet again? How can I call my self the same as it was, when it is so entirely different? THE SELF DOES NOT EXIST.
Aether.
Abyss.
Aum.
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