Everything comes
from nothing and goes back.
From nowhere,
anger, for instance, appears
and briefly I
claim it. I am anger until it fades
and I become
whatever next appears.
So it is with all
experience. It rises, I identify with it;
it fades and I
latch onto the next rising phenomenon.
Even physical
existence apparently comes and goes this way –
comes from
nothing each moment and each moment returns
creating the
illusion of continuity and substance.
And in all of
this coming and going,
where is there
room for I, me, my and mine?
Everything comes
from nothing and goes back.
Attaching myself
to this procession of experiences,
I call that
me. I am that. That is mine.
If I yell and
shake my fist at God,
it is God shaking
His fist at Himself,
my raised voice
as meaningless and natural as thunder,
my shaking fist a
tree branch in a brisk wind.
O child of God,
in all of infinite existence
there is no room
for the separate self.
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