Tired, tired, world, go to sleep, you’re just making it harder on yourself.
Bouncing fucking bubbles I swear to god.
Isolated interpretations of isolated experience.
Bouncing up against other isolated interpretations of isolated experience.
Sometimes quite rapidly.
Experiencing, in isolation, other experiences in isolation.
Sometimes one after the other in rapid succession.
Sometimes many at once.
Sometimes just one other.
Much energy going into the illusion of experiencing non-isolation.
A hierarchy developed in order of those isolated interpretations of isolated experience that make one’s interpretation of their experience seem less isolated to those isolated interpretations of isolated experience that enforce the reality of one’s isolated interpretation of the experience of isolation.
God I’m fucking alone.
Our bodies are the root of the illusion.
For it is through them that we experience.
Sensations that can be interpreted with other sensations, such as:
The sensation of thought.
Sensations linked together to form impressions.
Like glucose to starch.
Surrounded by impressions, the sensing organs leave a mold of their center.
That region where the organs themselves exist, but cannot sense.
This mold is much like that which creates a fossil.
It has a shape, but really it is just surrounded emptiness.
Which is our body.
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