You do understand that life is a flow. There are not really separate days. Life is a river that flows. You float on the stream of the river. You bob along in life. You do really and truly deep down know that all days flow together. You know you give names to that which cannot be held in place. You repeat, "Sunday, Monday, Tuesday…" You repeat, "December 26, 27, 28…" You and the world make imaginary identifications of the stream of life that flows right past you as you keep bobbing along.

Nothing stays still for you. All in the world is movement. And you move. You do dance steps here and there, and yet within you, within your swinging your arms, and within every animate and inanimate thing, within bouncing balls and jumping beans, there is also that stillness. While you move across the movie screen of life, you are simultaneously on pause. You are definitely not solely the motion and commotion you seem to be immersed in.

The world may turn. It does turn. It revolves around the yellow sun, and yet there is the core within the Earth that is still. It doesn't move. There is that pivotal place that doesn't move, yet all around it appears to move. By My definition, not even a boomerang really moves. Not even a yo-yo. Not even a running man.

This core within you is a balancing spot. Isn't that what pivots do? They stand strong and balance all that rides on them. This balancing spot within you that I speak of is not really a spot, of course. I am just making a comparison to a fulcrum, for indeed the spot I speak of is not located at all. In the Reality of which I speak, there is nothing to balance. All is, in a sense, suspended animation. And yet everything moves. Everything is moving. All those atoms are whirling, whirling, and yet even so, within each atom and on to the infinitesimal, there is no movement whatsoever.

You may think I'm a Riddlemaker, and yet, beloveds, what exists that is not a riddle? What exists that is more than a riddle made with a rhythm of sound? A boom is heard and sparks fly off from that which moves not at all.

And so illusion was born, and illusion is what you live with on Earth until you see through all its disguises, until you even recognize your disguise, until you, as it were, give up illusion. You give up the lovely story, a lovely story even when some of its illusion is terrifying. Of course, you really don't give up anything. You really can't give up anything when you don't really have anything in your hand. Your hand is empty. Or We can say that your hand is full with a Nothingness that is greater than all the Everythingness ever imagined by a consensus of the world. Of course, the Nothingness is the Source of the Everythingness, and so you have a riddle that cannot be solved in the words you put it in.

But, of course, there is really no riddle at all! And yet creation is dedicated to solving the riddle. Once there was an edge to the Earth where you could fall off, and now you know there is no Earth to fall from whatever its shape. There are no facts. There is no fiction either.

Yet — ah, yes! There is love, and that is the cement you walk on. Ah, yes, that is the glue of the Universe, of the imagined Creation which serves as an Ode to Love.