it's an imagined world - real to the subjective terms of the senses, and yet existence itself is an openness beyond the means of interpretation and description. Everything simply is, no story, empty of all meaning in our relations until the moment we assign one. Our stories give definition to what arises, a tree is distinct but is equal to ground and sky - only our label of thoughts concerning the tree give it a degree of separation. So too for all we see, our every thought, it's all free of our intent and fiction. This is life in the pureness (suchness) of each moment, just before we reach for stories - and even after the story's told.
Pureness still remains.
~
Peace,
Eric
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