The end of all tales

Everything I know, or think to know, makes me sad. Despondent. Miserable…

If I remain within the specific – and thus narrowing – limits of my lifelong experience, I am doomed…Likewise, if I remain a victim of my anticipation, constantly projecting my experience in the so-called future, I unbeknownst maintain and generate the same flawed image of me, with its fears, shortcomings and abysmal regrets…

Do I want that?…- cause this is the real question:

Do I find any sense in tormenting and beating up myself?

Is it any gain in self-punishment?…

Or am I aware that everything I think I know is simply a point of view…? – a rather prejudiced and incomplete outlook on life, based on an outlandish story I have been inventing and telling myself…

Can I put behind me the thought of me? – that is, the idea of me being a linear creature with a past and a future – and instead, plunge into the Timeless Presence of Me, into the No Tale of me, into The Miracle of the Unknown Me…

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