If we let life write itself, how would we read it? We would sit gently on a bench and watch all the scenes we have passed through in this lifetime. We would remember the sound of the living forest in the scent of spring. We would remember and relive even the moments of infancy, all the way back into deep stillness. There, where life would begin again in a corner of the universe. Lonely as a candle flame. A new life would rise again. The same soul, but in a different setting. A fragile time like spring grass. The big lad would grow again. Mischievous and joyful. Long-haired and ragged, now a child from the countryside. Cheerful, free in the cornfield. Listening once more to the sound of the forest.
It feels like only yesterday he did this, yet now he does not remember. The same flavor of spring. As if he senses he remembers the stillness of the forest. Its sound. The buzzing of life swarming everywhere around. In the song of the little birds, in the chirping of the hungry sparrows.
The walk through life begins again. The dance is so vast. You ask: what dance? Well, it too is like the sound of the forest — it is the same thing, life. Here and there. In me and in you. In the chirping of the hungry sparrows.
And do you know where else life is? In the mountains that gaze silently. In the shiver of cold water rushing downhill until it reaches the sea, until it reaches the ocean. Home. But wait — when did it leave? That fragile bud of life. Of water. Of a fawn.
That is life. That is how it would write if it could. And if we sat and read quietly as it unfolds, we would gather every second to our chest.
We would live every moment smiling. We would know life is everywhere. In me. In you. In us. In this thought that seems to sing like a violin in an attic.
It is like a dream. A dream you never quite wake from. So vivid and clear. So alive, as if I am in life, inside it. And I sit here writing, in the dream of course.
I only dreamed. I dreamed so beautifully. That I was here on earth, watching a child savor the forest. Smiling in the cornfield. I was sitting, writing and at the same time watching the thought, the buzzing of insects in the cornfield. That is what I did in the dream. I sat, wrote, and dreamed.
I lived my childhood again. Yours. Hers. Ours. That is what I did in the dream. I smiled beside you, watching you read. That is what I did in the dream.
But then I wanted to wake up. I tried, but sleep pulled me deeper. And I remained there, in the dream. Then I heard others speaking about enlightenment. Spiritual awakening. I did not know what that was, but it sounded interesting.
And so, still in the dream, I sat and wrote about it. About life. And life was in me. Until one day the dream ended.
I was frightened and did not know where I was. I was dead. Strange. I am dead, yet I move, I seem alive. My body had been laid there, with many flowers around it. I went beside it — it was cold. It was not me.
Now I could fly. I felt so light. It was pleasant, like a dream. I felt so much. But my mind was foggy. I was no longer dreaming. I was only struggling. As if someone had given me ten Diazepam pills. A chaotic head. An unclear mind. Total anesthesia.
And so, feeling dizzy and unable to control anything, a chaotic mind remained. And I watched it. And then it stopped. Who? The mind. It became calm like the sea without waves. Here and there a stray thought appeared, floated for a while, then sank.
That is how I was now. Tired after a long journey. I had already forgotten the dream. I seem to remember something. Or not. It passed. Now I am calm like the sea after a storm. Pleasant, dancing. Quiet.
That is how I forgot I had been in a dream. That I had been a wave. That today I am here or there. Or everywhere. That is how I am. Here and there. Like a calm wave seen at night from afar.
From a hotel room where my lover was. That is how I was now — the one watching the wave in the moonlight. That calm wave caressing the wreck. The wreck that too had once been full of life. It once was.
Now I am homesickness. Now I sit and watch. How everything comes and goes, and I remain quiet, fragile like a blade of grass in spring. As in a dream.
Do not try to understand. There is nothing to understand. I have said nothing. Just feel life. You are it. You are you. It is this vast world. It is the thought that runs — that comes when it wants, and you believe you are thinking. But you do not know it is life playing. Frolicking, running, joyful in your mind. Such freedom.
But if the thought were to stop, life would stop too. And then what would happen? You would see that you are it. Do not try to understand. The earth is too beautiful not to feel it under your feet.
Why understand? Do you think that if you understand, you could understand that you cannot understand?
Sit down for a moment and write. Write to me and tell me: what would life write if it could on a sheet of paper?
What do you want to understand? That life is everything and death does not exist? That the world exists only in your head? Is that what you wanted to understand?
How can you write and understand something that is nothing? When the dream is more alive than you. As if “alive” even existed. This is life. This is the universe. Today, yesterday, tomorrow. Again and again the same. This is me. This is life.
You would want to know what life is? You would want to know what everything is? You would not — because then you would want to forget it all. To begin again. To make and unmake. To feel the aroma of coffee. To feel again that feeling in your mother’s arms. You would want to live and live all pleasures and even adore the pains, knowing they are part of you.
You would know everything is, and you cannot change anything. You would want — and it is okay to want. But it would make no sense when life is now, here. You feel it. It is all you have. You are free. Only thought deceives you. Only the mind is your prison.
You cannot wake up. The dream is too vivid. You have already forgotten what happened. What station? Where is the meaning? Ah yes, here. It is life — free to feel.
Do not try to understand. Dream, child. Make it good. The dream does not change, but you change the state. Infinity is so small. A drop of salt — if you dissolved it, you would see. The whole sea is in it.
Choose love in your heart, in everything, in life. Let yourself feel and create good. Let life be light and gentle — for me, for you, for all. Create with goodness, for that is where we will dream. There is no other world. You are in it and it is in you.
That is the dream. Do not try to understand it. You have ego in the dream too. But have you asked why? To give you an “I.” An “I” that stands in a single dream. A calm and gentle dream. The ego only wants to be. Just sit with it. It brought you here, into the dream.
Understand now why you should choose only love in the dream? Be love. Be life. Just be. You will know you are already home. Everything is connected and interconnected — how else could it be, if this is all there is?
Only thought separates them. You see the universe as vast and distant, but you do not see it in yourself. It is the same here and there. Stop trying to understand thought. Be yourself and let life flow.
It is not easy, but once you have tamed the horse, you ride it. You are the thought. You know when it rises. You see it and are one with it — with the thought, the horse, the wave.
Now do you understand that you cannot understand? That everything you seek is you? The thought, the sea, the ocean, the sandy beach, mother, father.
Now what do you choose? To be one with life, to smile when bitterness returns? Or do you run, thinking you know better what life is? Why is yesterday no longer here and tomorrow not yet appeared? Why does the wave not know it is the ocean?
And then death comes. You fear it, thinking demons await. You do not know, poor thing, that you created them, giving them life by believing in them. You created them in your thought, then tried to escape them.
Good thing forgetting exists. Otherwise we would always remain in the heavy night.