I cannot know what This is, what, if anything, is actually going on in this place I call here, on this planet spinning through space. I can only know a story about This, about goings on, about here, about a planet and a universe, about I, regardless of how pretty my story or if it is horror show.
It could be deeply experienced — firsthand — all the way in — and it’s still a story. My sensations perceptions thoughts do not make it real. They merely make it a convincing story.
What if this is all a multitude of convincing stories, like dreams — just like dreams? Dreams feel real when we are dreaming, such detail of perception and sensations, emotions and feelings, and yet, simple fantasy.
Maybe at another level, in another dimension, we are having a different dream and this world, this experience is that world’s dream. How would we know?
We really can’t know anything at all.
I can never know your story and even though I know your story seems true to you because it is just as real as mine, just as indeterminable as mine, I rest in the realization that it too, is not ultimately true. it is a precious phenomenal story, like mine.
Knowing that — well as best as knowing goes 😉 — how can I be disrespected dishonored assaulted by your story? How can I be loved enjoyed enhanced? At best, my story is disrespected by your story, my story loved by yours.
You’d think that seeing this, noticing the absolute impossibility of knowing anything at all, of seeing the fantasy that is, would somehow lessen the beauty, the unreality revealed would banish the experience, making it vanish into thin air.
It doesn’t … or at least not in this story. Yours of course, will always be uniquely different — slightly or otherwise. Here, it came wrapped in the sparkly ribbons of freedom, the colorful papers of judgement ripped asunder, leaving an empty box of surprises — possibilities untold, the joy of simple pleasure, the presence of effortless receptivity, the fulfillment of every need for another now.
We are truly making it up as we go … or … this we call life is unfolding as improvisational jazz, not knowing what note is coming next. If there is a choice, which seems doubtful — but that’s my story and no story is true — I’d choose to dance.
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. It’s actually much better than we can imagine. 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 … and she is. Love a paradox and life is nothing, if not paradoxical. 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.