We come into this world with a story.
Each one of us has it written on our face.
We spend the rest of our lives busy editing,
but it never actually comes to an end,
even when we eventually do.
Although emptiness suffused with awareness
may be our essential nature, we keep adding
and subtracting, trying to make our story
ring true, even thought it is fiction.
A good artist can make anything appear
to be something it isn’t. In that respect,
we all eminently qualify.
Every moment of life’s experience begins
in the pure atmosphere of wide open expanse,
but then we put words in the character’s mouths
like “me” and “mine” that complicate the scene.
Because experience is uncertain and often seems
fragmentary, we use those self-referential devices
as a way to create a sense of thematic consistency.
When we imagine that they actually represent
a substantial and enduring person, we fall victim
to a literary trap of believing our own daydreams.
Fortunately, there is a reliable cure for this:
find some honest work you’d really enjoy,
and leave the dreaming for night.