There lives the unnamed, the unnameable. It is beyond words. We think it is apart from us, as we think we are apart from each other, as we think we can think without affecting each other. With every thought we affect each other, and the world we believe is outside us.
The unnamed created us. But created is wrong, because there is no past...then the mind begins to reel. I ask my mind to be quiet, to just be. I am convinced now that the unnamed is real. I am convinced that what I call my thoughts affect those around me.
The self I think I am is an illusion of self. I am (we are) dreaming. No one, nothing, real has ever been harmed. We invented the concept of harm. We invented the world.
Nothing I write here is original. There is only one thing to say, but many ways to say it. I write of a reality I can barely sense, but I do sense it. It is not apart from me (us), I just thought it was. Others have sensed it, and in truth, all sense it. But then, there are no others. There is one self; we are one self.
The love the unnamed has for us cannot be described; its peace extends to every living thing, itself unnamed and unnameable.
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