One's prodigious capacity for instant story-telling, or rapid inflation, upstages the innocent simplicity of present being, thus we subscribe to mind by default as an accurate compendium of who and what and where and why we are now.
We become hyper-inflated with self and come to embrace a steady preoccupation with everywhere else but here, so sure of our imaginations and will to guide us toward future fulfillment.
This generally accepted habit, an insidious parasite of fantasy, presumes agency and dominion as it takes all the credit for whatever we think has, is, and will happen. We are entranced with what we think as the oracle and high priest of what's real, while having no actual contact with the ever effervescing surprise of empty experience.
Mind, a self-conditioning reference accusation and projection system, is a symptom of empty experience, but if we clutch too tight it can appear to be exempt from suspicion.
The reflex to believe in mind is the seed of individuated coherence, the source of self and other, and the genesis of existential malnourishment that leads to conflict and violence.
Experience, the sole infinity, is concomitantly empty of objects, empty of implication, and full to spilling over with stuff to believe in.
If we fail to see the Dao of radiant inclusivity we end up one-sided, tethered to belief. If we are invited and inspired to behold the entirety, we become nourished by the intoxicating presence of emptiness as ourselves.
Wouldn't you know it, there's a Troll in my coffee.
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