I don’t want fucking scraps anymore. I want to find love and beauty in this continuous death, and that requires the truth (to be more accurate, the removal of the layers shrouding the truth). A baby smiles at itself with no hesitation. I want to smile like that too.
Dying to myself was important. Without knowing, I had become sick from the mind’s ruminations which had kept me deluded for so long. I was so stunned by the container of all of these feelings. I mistook the container for myself. This is not to say that I am a different version of myself or that I have grown. What I thought was “me” never existed. The bonds that tied me to people, places, and things all fell away. A new fondness emerged. There are still emotions (or sensations, I try not to label them too much), but it is processed differently. As much as possible, I try not to run from it. Running from it is another layer of delusion.
Happy New Year.