All that you experience on Earth is mere experience. And you are the one who experiences. You are the experiencer. You are the interpreter of what you experience. Life on Earth is an experience. It seems like reality, yet experience is like a song being played, a tune hummed, a note written, a note being opened, a note read, a note folded in your hand, or dropped from your hand. Life is a commingling of people leaving notes or picking them up and messages garbled or clear, heavy or light, some in code, some indecipherable, all impinging on the whole Universe as if life were an adornment or a trail left in the sand.
All experience is the same, and yet no two experiences are alike. Everyone reads a different novel, leaves it open at a different page, skips some pages, rereads others, puts the book down, picks it up, opens it, turns to another page, closes it, reads it in the dark, hides it under the bed.
Such a hullabaloo is made of this incidental life. Your life on Earth is like a bobbin that bobs along contributing to stitches sewn on invisible cloth. The thread is never cut. Your fingers retrace the threads, and the seams your fingers trace are called your life. Stitches are not dropped, however, for stitches continue on the same piece of cloth or another joined at the hip. Temporary garments have been woven in many hues, and there is a hue and cry. Garments fade, but the continuance of life enters other streams and then comes up to the surface again like a leaping fish.
A life lived, a life remembered, a life dreamed, a life sought, a life run away from, all the combinations, all the thoughts are life, life serene, or life on a rampage, life hurried, life slow, life trammeled, life untrammeled, life on a march, life at rest, life toggling along its own path leading to where you began. There is no leaving off life. Life follows you and engages you, whirls you in a whirlwind, or lets you tan on the beach.
How powerful is this life you lead wherever you think you lead it. You can’t put life in place. You can’t anchor it. You can only follow it or drift along with it or ride on it or swim under it, and yet you and your life engage, and so the tale is spun, and it is a tale never told before and yet it is not new. It is a spectacle like a new movie of epic proportions, and yet it is a twice-told tale, or one told every day and every night without cease.
Life in the world is not one way. It is many ways. There are many ways to take it. You can’t leave it. You are on the ride of your lifetime, and there is no getting off, and there is no end to it. It is like the Old Man River that just keeps rolling along. Life takes you with it, or you take it with you.
All life is the hope of the future, and the future is known, and the past is not, for the past escapes and bears no scrutiny. The past is a fragment. The future is now, and you are like Joan of Arc carrying not a sword but a light to vanquish misrepresentations of the world, to brighten the world, to lift the world off its feet, to raise the world high, to make the world a troubadour announcing that Heaven has come, and now the music can begin.