All the World Is a Stage
Your picture of the world is your picture of the world. The objective world does not exist. The subjective world exists for you. All matter is a thought that manifested itself into your supposed reality.
But, enough of that. What shall We talk about now?
I hear you saying, "But, God..."
And I tell you that the world is like the way you read a story. The story can even be a fairy tale. You know it's not literally true. Are there apples made of gold metal that hang on a tree? Are there ten dancing princesses in the middle of the night? Is there really a Rapunzel who lets down her long hair so that her beloved can climb it to reach the tower she is in? Is there a Rumpelstilskin and a princess who outsmarts him? Where are these characters who enter your hearts and minds? Were they ever anything but a thought?
And yet how these stories affect you. How you are besmitten by the consciousness of the story and its ringing truths. You laugh. You cry. You believe in the stories you read or are told. In the same way you believe in what your fingers touch and the bricks of a building you see.
Of course you believe deeply in the made-up story of the world. You are caught up in the machinations of the story you live in. Is not life filled with story? Who married whom? Who went to the ball? Whom did you dance with? Who opened your heart? Who broke your heart?
No one really did anything to you, and nothing really happened. You imagined that you are in a movie, much the way you become involved in a night dream that takes you by the nose and you watch a drama that defies even imagination. All is a myth. And you, the individuality of you, is a myth.
I am the only Truth. Being is the only Truth, and you are Being. You are not doing-ness. You are Being-ness. You are Being. No matter what story you are presently in, no matter what character you play, the damsel, the villain, the old, the young, you are Being. That's all you are, and that's all there is.
You are a Being who enters a story. It is quite a story. You never know what is really going to happen, and yet I tell you that nothing happens. Nothing is happening. You are simply Being dressed in a tale of epic proportions.
There is a silent part of you that is aware you are in a story, yet, still, regardless, you are in that story. Willy-nilly, you ride an imaginary horse. It is real to you, and, yet, it is all fantasy. There is no horse. There is no you. There is no riding. Being, for a while, tells a tale and believes in it as if Being were not.
There is nothing but Being. Any way you slice, Being is all. The you you know, the daredevil, the recluse, the motivator, the hothead, the king, the serf, all of this is made-up story. You walk in illusion. You are the Emperor in his new clothes.
But how lovely the fantasies. How they uplift you or pull you down. How they run through your fingers. How they make your life bearable or unbearable. How you remember them or forget them. They are all the same anyway, whatever clothes they are dressed in. They are your imagination run wild. That is life in the relative world. That is the drama you take so seriously and defend to the end as if the drama were true instead of staged.
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