Dissolving

So it comes down to this. There is no self to be worthy or unworthy. There is nothing to be "listened to", there is no one to listen, anyway. Nothing (and no one) is useful, or useless. These are all labels, and nothing more and nothing less. There is nothing (and everything, simultaneously). As always, it's about the false dichotomies, the arbitrary divisions, the comparisons, the context put in place by the ego-self.

More and more, I consider that maybe I really don't have anything to say to anyone, maybe even including my self. Perhaps the cloistered monks and nuns who take vows of silence have it exactly right. Perhaps communication is unnecessary and overrated. After all, who is speaking? Who is hearing? What is the point? It's all just this ego-self babbling into the dreamworld of Consciousness, and nothing more.

How ridiculous I am. I knew this, have known it for a long time. Have seen it, lived it, still live it most of the time. And yet some random, undissolved and attached piece of self turns up and I'm all full of pain and maybe fear and other things that are utterly unnecessary. Ridiculous, ridiculous. Drama, all made up, all unnecessary.

There is no need to "honour" my self, or the "inner child", clothed in fear and shadow, lurking in my subconsciousness for most of the story that is this life. She doesn't exist, and neither do I, and this life story, entertaining though it may be at times, is nothing more than one of an infinite number of life stories, pulled from the nebulous energies and thoughts and pulses that arise within Consciousness. It is the ego that crafts the story, and that's what an ego is supposed to do, but it is only a story. There is no "I". There are no lines, there is only variations of light and dark, interpreted and made into a tale, one with a beginning, and a middle, and and end, but which is no more substantial than a dream.

How ridiculous that I ever allowed myself to suffer over Nothing.