It is a construct of one’s own consciousness -- or, should I say, degree of consciousness.At the moment, there are nearly six billion people on this planet, each of them existing inside their own construction. We can think of these constructions as separate dimensions, all happily coexisting side by side, with no interaction between them. The universe is like a multitude of bubbles, each bubble an isolated construction of consciousness, each somehow making room for the rest. It is an interesting picture of the Universe, but is it really true? Or is it simply a construct of my own consciousness, one that lacks any kind of objective reality? I will let the reader decide that one for himself.
Since one’s consciousness cannot comprise the totality and consciousness itself is the dividing up of and recognition between things, this must be so.
It is impossible to be conscious of the totality when that very consciousness is the art and craft of separation. Who am I but an appearance amongst appearances who longs to be and not to be at the same time.
Ah! the egotistical conceit, the unbearable isolation in thinking one is so alone, never to realise that the desire for warmth in company is of the same genus as the cold isolation of self, arising together to appear separate.
Oh, how we hold on to mental artefacts -- as if to forcibly make them permanent whilst denying their permanency by virtue of doing so. How frail is the myth of man to the spirit. A self-fulfilling prophecy confined within its own ignorance: compelled by the infusion of infinity that can only be seen to move unaffected.
Oh, reality! A gossamer chameleon effortlessly shifting and changing form at the penetrating glance of a truthful eye; dissolving into all but naught to the touch of a hand. And as I pass through you, you pass through me. Like an apparition through fire and ice we are one and the same.
