Does it matter?
There’s nothing here appearing as everything. I have no input into what happens even though everything that happens is influenced by what I do or do not do. Each experience instantly — no more than that and less — repopulates the data field of manifestation with each new breath, each new thought, sensation, perception, response, reaction, no, not instantly, simultaneously, and yet, that infers time which is not so.
Everything known is appearing on the stage of timelessness, synced in perfection, experiences blinking in and out on (ah words) the backdrop of consciousness, made of consciousness, returning to consciousness. It is all mind, but not mind in the way we believe mind to be, not activity within a brain, within a body.
Where is mind? What is it that knows or that it would matter to? There is no limit to it, no boundary between my minds, for this is not two. Mind is awareness, not yours and mine, but simple basic awareness, awareness aware of itself. To separate consciousness from awareness would be another trick of mind, but then again, to name anything is nothing but a bag of tricks.
There is a mechanism for knowing, or so it appears, but who knows, what is it that knows; now that’s the million dollar question.
There is nothing to know, no one to know it, all seemingly flowing in time as you, me and the world, and able to be preciously viscerally passionately known. It is impossible to know anything, to know another human being, let alone to touch them, to connect. I can only connect with my sensational version of another, my perception, my thoughts and beliefs about the other, the other who is not other at all, but my mind-made version, an other who lives inside a mind that cannot be found to exist, an other who is not out there at all.
Could it matter what happens? What I do? What I don’t do?
Even if I touch you, I don’t feel you. I feel sensations, sensed through what appears as my body, and call them you, but you aren’t a you at all, nor am I a me. You are simply my perceptions, sensations, and thoughts. You are not, nor could you ever be, any other than an imaginary friend. Could I be anything more substantial?
And yet, it seems to matter and to not matter at all, all in the same appearance of the passage of time, time that is but a string of perceptions, sensations and thoughts, interspersed with gaps that can only be felt and seen because of consciousness which never ever is absent, is eternally timelessly present.
This entire happening is a cosmic ball of yarn, being patted and bounced, unwound and stalked by The Cat — a cat, like Schrodinger’s Cat, that cannot be found.
Now I’m quite certain that that’s a wee bit of uncertainty 🙃😉 It’s quite wonderful that this apparency loves a good mystery.
There is no appropriate bio for Amaya Gayle. She doesn’t exist other than as an expression of Consciousness Itself. Talking about her in biographical terms is a disservice to the truth and to anyone who might be led to believe in such nonsense. None of us exist, not in the way we think. Ideas spring into words. Words flow onto paper and yet no one writes them. They simply appear fully formed. Looking at her you would swear this is a lie. She’s there after all, but honestly, she’s not. Bios normally wax on about accomplishments and beliefs, happenings in time and space. She has never accomplished anything, has no beliefs and like you was never born and will never die. Engage with Amaya at your own risk.