A Note on Being

The truth about who you are

A being comes to another and asks, “How to be?”

A being laughs and groans.

If a being asks how to be, is he not ignorant of his own being?

He has likely discarded his own being long ago.

(But how could he discard what he is?)

If you tell a being this, he might ask, “Then how do I find myself?”

A being asks, how can it find its own being? When all it is, in the end, is being?

Not a being with a name. Not a being with titles and bonds, and all manner of ideas of being something else.

A Being, such as yourself, has no practical permanence.

A “modern” being knows nothing of being while it is alive. And then it disappears, into the ether, forever.

A being that does not is a ghost. It does not know itself. And so it sleepwalks through life.

If a being is actually able to discover its own being before its expiry date, it becomes ecstatic. It falls into itself. That is, pure being.

Its white eyes unglue and roll forward, exposing the reality, once and for all.

And then there is the catatonic shock–Catatonia. Waves roll throughout this being as it dissolves into the ocean of truth. The ocean of what is. The ocean of what you have forsaken your entire life, when you decided something was missing, from your very own being.

When you fell victim to the lie, that there could be some sort of being, missing from being itself.

But if you are you, then how could something be missing, from that?

If you were not you, then you could say there was something, in fact, amiss.

But you Are you. And if you are what you are, how could something be missing from it?

When you decide you are unsure of yourself, who is it that decides?

You will always be what you are, in this very moment. Thoughts of otherness is the definition of illusion.

Illusion is the spawn of desire. And desire is the cause of all suffering.

To become, what you already are, requires the destruction, of what you are not.

The seeking of anything other than yourself is therefore the path of misery.

And one day, when you’ve had enough, you drop sword and shield, having conquered the dragon of self. You become sentience. Pure sentient being. Immortal. You scream for the ego to come back. The perfection is simply too much to bear. The familiarity of your prison, so comforting.

But you never forget. Never from there. It is the beginning of the rest of your life.