Last night I woke up in the middle of the night and looked out of the door of our bedroom. As I looked, I was not able to understand what I was looking at. It was like a mirror was looking into a mirror, looking into a mirror, looking into a mirror. There was just nothing, nothing being endlessly reflected in itself. It felt like I was tumbling endlessly into an abyss, into complete chaos.
There was a tightening or a bracing, a holding on. “I’m not letting go.” I thought. That thinking, like the seeing, joined the cacophony of emptiness. It had no meaning either. It was just what seemed to be happening. This chaotic aliveness seemed to build and build, a constantly crescendoing zing, until the words came, “Wow! That’s pretty intense.”
I took a deep breath and looked at the yellow slats of light falling diagonally across our bedroom wall. Again, I had no idea what I was looking at, but it was endlessly engaging, endlessly new. I lay still in bed, just looking at the wall for a long time.
None of this is important. I suspect that this is just one of an infinite number of experiences that could happen as the sense of individuality begins to let go, when what appears to be happening is seen without the filter of imaginary knowing, understanding, and meaning.
