“I” take full credit for not having much in the way of “follow through”. I take full credit for stopping short of finishing, because there is no longer an actually-believed-to-be linear sequencing of events stemming from “me”. “Me” is but the effect of the thought “I am”; all that is manifest stems from the effects of this thought. When the thought “I am” ceases, “me” and “my effects” go with it. All is witnessed to have already happened spontaneously, of its own accord, as consciousness simultaneously experiences its own questioning. Consciousness continues to question, yet Being the Answer, I am no longer subject to the effects of experiencing.
“I” isn’t “me”, “living” and “dying”; I am Always for Real, me is just “for pretend”. I live forever, and me pretends to die in a framework called space-time. Death is imagined, and in doing so, the world with its terrible hour glass come into view.
Every thought I ever had to do with writing the body’s script – every goal, every idea about what I could do with myself, who I could become – has fizzled before it ever finished. I have become nothing in this game of pretend. Every single thing I ever thought I wanted for me, for myself, turns out to be not what I actually wanted. At night I gladly lay all things to rest in Self-Love, and make belief has no say in the matter.
This is because I want only Love, for Real. I watch mind holding and letting go of what has already happened in fluid motion, knowing the mind’s editor acts after the fact, as if a fist grasping air. I resist after the fact and the fist closes in on nothing, I accept, and it opens to everything. I am not the nothingness in the fist as it closes in, but the Context of Everything from which all thoughts of nothing flow through the hand’s open state. I decide for nothing as it has all been decided. I may only allow what is to be as it is, because when I resist, I mistake for Truth illusion.
For a time I was unaware that I was resisting, stuck in aversion, closing the fist over nothing, and this was a time of seeming imprisonment. It was in time which I believed I wanted what I was seeing, it was in time that I closed the fist of I am as if to grasp for myself. When this time was over, it was gloriously noted that the Present, unchanging, continues to devour all “befores” and “afters”. The Present is all there ever was, and all that remains to ever be. Self is the Presence of the Present. Self is the Glory noted in the absence of time.
I cannot follow through for myself in time, because in Reality, in the absence of time, I am ecstatic, and in time, I am seemingly imprisoned. To follow through with what I have made of myself in time, I can only but plan for my death, and die.
Darcie French 