We each are our own masterpiece, our own painting of what life is, of what’s possible, what’s not, and whether we mean to or not, we paint other peoples’ story with our unique brush set, never truly knowing if we are close, a million miles away, or in an entirely different universe.
Most of us don’t even know we are doing it. We simply think this is the way the world is and that everyone else sees it the same way, or if not the same, at the least in the same ballpark.
I’ve often wondered what other people see when they are looking in the same direction as me. Do they see what I see? Are their greens greener or slightly washed out? What about blue? Are they deeper? Do they fall into the sky, thinking that’s what everyone does, or are they seeing nothing, just the story inside their heads?
We don’t communicate well as a species. We use words differently with entirely dissimilar meanings, and then we say, no — you are wrong, or I don’t see it that way, without having a clue as to what the other is even saying, let alone what they mean.
We are a walking world of assumptions, assuming that we are communicating, assuming that others are seeing and feeling, hearing and sensing the same things we are … and really, there is no way to know.
We can’t even know if we are interpreting our own experience accurately. With so many filters between life and our experience of it, how can we know if our current version is true or not?
Heck, most of it is made up entirely.
Well, you say, I trust my experience. That’s good, but which version? The one that is tinted with trauma and self-rejection, or the one that is colorfully wrapped in the fear of death, or the one that is outlined for you by the media, Facebook posts, family and friends. The possibilities are endless.
All the trappings of life, set the snare and pull the noose tight, ensuring that life is never met directly, emptily, head on. We literally have to fight ourselves to snap the trap, to see what’s behind the curtain.
I have no idea what your experience of life is. I can’t. I can only share my experience as it is in this moment in full recognition that I can’t even know that what I relate has any reality to it.
I tend to think it rarely does, more likely never, at least not any lasting or meaningful reality. I am, this appearance of a bodymind is, but a flash in the pan, a shooting star, an orgasm streaking across the stage of life until it peters out and simply disappears.
Now this that is aware of that bodymind, aware of appearances, of all appearance, is even more elusive, even more impossible to pin down.
I could play with what that means, what that is, but what’s the point. That would simply be another story in my storybook, in my words, with my meanings, about something I know nothing about, another shooting star making its way across life’s stage.
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. That said with a giggle, check out Amaya’s new book – Actuality: infinity at play, available in paperback and e-book at Amazon.
This is an advertisement
