Delusion, revealed.

The air smells of coffee roasting. The music blares. A man stands awkwardly in the corner when a bird suddenly descends to the ground in front of him. With a wry smile, he gives it a look over. A group of people talking at the table in front of me, one man mostly with his hands. It’s funny how the words don’t matter.

Life is full of little ironies, isn’t it? I always find myself writing about what can’t be described in words, and that’s about as ironic as it gets. But that’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with irony or contradiction. Contradiction is the balancing act of being. We can only know what we are in contradiction to what we’re not. Our life is contrasted by our death, up is in contrast to down, something exists in contrast to nothing.

I suppose speaking or writing about the universe exists in contrast to the experience of the universe. It’s an odd thing, this writing. It acts as a chore for most people, but I can’t function well without it. Out of everything I’ve come to enjoy in my life, there’s only one thing I love with every ounce of my being. Only one thing I could do every day and be filled with satisfaction. And it’s this. This odd little smashing of keys or moving of the pen.

It's a certain kind of writing in which I really find fulfillment. I suppose it would be more correct to say it’s a certain kind of writing in which fulfillment is experienced, because it’s writing which is absent of self. The writing where enjoyment proliferates is the writing where the writer is nowhere to be found, and the words are absent of desire. There is nothing that is trying to be written about. There is no goal of the writing, only writing.

I don’t think people dislike this type of writing. Because it’s not just writing, it’s freedom. It’s expression and true creativity. The writing we have disdain for is writing which restricts us. We’re told we need to write about a specific topic, and it must be organized in a certain manner, littered with parameters. It’s no wonder we feel bound. This type of writing constricts us and suffocates our creative nature. The words are written down, but the writing is not experienced.

If we’re writing for a reason, we’re never truly present with the writing. We’re thinking about what to write next, or what someone might think of the words, or how we as the writer might be perceived for writing something. This hijacks the authenticity of the words. Almost everything we write is already deceptive to some degree, at least if we’re writing from an ego-conscious perspective. Ironically, the only writing which reveals the true self is writing which is absent of it.

I used to write at tremendous length about myself. I suppose it was a way for me to inquire into the self, but that’s probably bullshit. Another rationalization to justify my existence as someone of significance. See how this is unavoidable? When we begin to write about ourselves, we fall into a canyon of lies, desperately flailing our arms as we try to grasp onto the slippery walls of our fallacious nature.

In Buddhism, the self is often described through the image of a mirror. The mirror itself isn’t anything, and because it’s not anything it reveals something. Who we are is revealed to an observer of the mirror, in relationship to the mirror. If a mirror is placed in front of another mirror, we see nothing but corridors of confusion. In that same sense, we can’t understand ourselves by looking at ourselves. We can only confuse ourselves. It’s only in the letting go of searching for ourselves that we allow ourselves to be.

What is revealed in the mirror is dependent on who stands in front of the mirror. I reveal myself differently depending on who is standing in front of me and when. What the observer sees is really a reflection. They see what they believe to be me, but it’s also them. They see the mirror, but they see their own reflection, and the two are dependent on each other.

To use a more practical example, we might form an opinion about someone based on our mood. We could be experiencing anger, meet someone new, and decide we don’t like them. But do we actually not like them, or are they simply reflecting our anger? If we are angry towards someone, they are likely to be angry back. Does that mean they’re actually angry at us, or are they just the mirror? Could it be that we simply see our own anger in them?

Everything is relationship between observer and mirror. We simply live in delusion because we fail to notice the connection. We feel like we’re walking around as an independent agent in an unfamiliar world. We don’t understand that we’re revealing the world, and the world is revealing us. When we try to establish ourselves as independent we reveal ourselves as greater and greater fools.

Look at anyone who gets lost in trying to prove themselves. People like Elon Musk, Donald Trump, Kim Jong Un… the more focused they become on their independent significance, the more absurdly outlandish and foolish they are. We might describe them by saying they “lose their minds,” but they haven’t the feintest clue of what the mind is. They are delusion, revealed.

Then, what happens? They see themselves in everyone who claims to support them, because their supporters see themselves in them. Their supporters are also delusion, revealed. We have a relationship of delusion revealing delusion. Each side really believes they are the ones who are significant, separate from everything else going on. But they never see their own reflection, only the endless corridor of confusion, masked by an overtly outlandish display of perceived confidence which hides the deep insecurity beneath. A strong man has nothing to prove. A weak man makes it his mission to put the strong man down.

- The Guy