The World is My Mirror Read Online Free Page B

with the thing that is really there. This, to be honest, is not too bad an answer; the mind has done well. If you are a sensitive type, you might feel wounded and deflated at this piece of logical mortar shell aimed in your direction, but congratulate the mind, and just like Columbo as he is walking out the door of a suspect’s house say, ‘Oh, and just one more thing before I go...’
     
    The mind’s answer still requires a kind of knowing, regardless of whether the object is perceived as real or represented. It makes no difference to experience whether it’s real, constructed or dreamt; there is still experiencing. Now, experiencing requires something experienced‌—‌an event, an object or a memory. Something needs to splash its colour on the canvas; but once splashed on the canvas, try and remove it, allow it to stand on its own two feet. Give the splash of colour its own show, make it the star and be in awe and utter reverence at the sight before you. Then pull yourself together and take off your Bullshitzio Italian designer glasses. You cannot separate the splash of colour, or experience, from experiencing or knowing. They are one and the same. The splash of colour is the canvas colouring. The canvas and the colour are not two things.
     
    You might find a silence from the mind at this stage. Is it re-arming itself or fatally wounded? My answer would be neither: it’s in shock, it has probably seen a ghost for the first time and just realised it can put its hand right through it. In other words, an absence has been sensed. The world has started to lose its solidity, its permanence, its created status. Just stop now. Listen to the silence. There is nothing left to do. Any counter attacks now are nothing more than the impact of a child’s spud gun‌—‌it stings a bit but no long-lasting damage.
     
    The mind has always thought it was running the show called ‘me.’ It created this person very early on as a way of making sense of the world, a world presented to us from seasoned others in the form of parents and teachers. We not only swallowed our food dutifully, we swallowed their version of reality in the same unquestioning manner. We had no choice. It was a clear case of conform or be ostracised‌—‌abandoned.
     
    Survival’s quite important for any being, but humans have an astounding level of awareness and sensitivity to their environment, and can respond to challenges with drastic measures and quick reactions. This seems to be the origin of personhood. Rather than feeling ourselves to be everything, we are convinced we are someone; when this happens, the world of others and objects is born. We are now walking through treacle trying to make the best of things but always being slowed down by social goo. Bang goes spontaneity; in come meaning, purpose and duty. Now, rather than being life, you have a life, and you have to make it work. You must fit in, so as not to be deemed mad or sad. Living becomes a damn serious matter requiring constant maintenance and attention. You are caught in the net of conformity and order. You are expected to play by the rules. You can elaborate a bit and bend them now and again, but you must never look behind the curtain to see the magic man.
     
    This sounds as if there is something deliberate going on, a kind of conspiracy to stop you seeing the truth. It is not. You can walk away anytime you like; the door’s open. You just need to be brave and take a look. Most people do not; they are too busy with making their everyday life work
     
    There seem to be pockets of resistance to the reality in which we are conditioned to believe. They are mostly evidenced by a feeling of alienation from the world or a deep curiosity about everything‌—‌both of which seem to be conducive to a search for enlightenment. There are people who just cannot make their lives work and there are others obsessed with discovering how the world works. Whatever the reason for the search, it is