𐙚

You must be strong enough for this truth: you are not the life in you. You do not exist. No claim of “mine” holds. You do not possess Life—it possesses you, a burden you bear. It’s a lunar phantasm to think this “Self” endures beyond the body’s decay. Can’t you see this flesh binds your being, its every faculty—however solar or exalted—swayed by illness, trauma, or chance? Now, detach from this false self and cross the threshold, sensing the rhythmic analogy deepen into the telluric shadows of the force sustaining your form. Here it sheds name and individuation. This sensation stretches, merging “me” and “not-me,” pervading nature, upholding time, sweeping myriad beings—drunk, mesmerized—in its relentless, wild, limitless flow, ablaze with an eternal void and lack. Say to yourself: “This is.” If this truth turns back upon you, a kali-yuga frost chilling your core, an abyss yawning beneath—“I exist in this”—then you’ve seized the waters’ knowledge.