There is no such thing as a person; at least certainly nothing that can be captured within the body or the mind. But yet we habitually and chronically lazily think of “persons” — those shorthand versions of ourselves and others that spark emotions ranging from infatuation to bloodlust. These models that we clutch to and work off of – how much do they have to do with the living reality appearing before us?

And are appearances “real”, in any reliable and enduring sense? What is real beyond our direct knowing of our being?

The conceit that so many authorities put forth – that anyone really knows how to be human, the right way to be human, turns out to be cockamamie on the face of it. There is consciousness, experience, the energy of consciousness which is set unrolling of its own accord, unstoppable and wild. Aside from that, though, we know nothing of what we are, who we are, what this is, what life is. We don’t know how to run and tend to this human machine, the experience of which we are caught up in. We have no idea. We know the definitions that we encircle around experience with our minds. But no one really KNOWS. Directly.

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