I've been dissolving stories.
Tales of woe, passion and purpose.
Ideas of self that seemed so real, enticing and accurate.
Motifs on love, right vs wrong and the how to's of living.
As these once considered allies of comfort dissolve I recognize the disruption they've caused.
The havoc they've wreaked.
The suffering, chaos and futility they've sown.
The maddening harvest of pain, co-fusion and insecurity they've created.
"They" being the illusion. The story. The thought.
Not that the thoughts, stories and theatrics themselves are the source of the suffering I've lived and re-lived on the ferris wheel of thought.
No. Not them. Not that.
But the dainty footsteps taken into the pond of belief that quickly turned to an undertow of becoming and believing; becoming and believing the character I had created.
The scripted responses to an unreal world developed by the intoxicating illusion that any thought is real. That is holds weight.
And so I wonder if this abiding awakening that I seek has begun and the idea of seeking is laughable as it too dissolves in a fiery solution of truth.
And I am just an idea.
Living and dying in a free fall called life.