What remains when distinctions blur into wholeness? I keep noticing these imaginary lines my mind draws around experience—carving states into “this” versus “that,” progress into “step-by-step” versus “immediate.” It is as if my life could be mapped like territory, with borders and names. But is that valid?

Sometimes, I think I’m approaching something special, something different from the ordinary mind. One foot on a familiar shore, one testing unknown waters. But who decides where the shore ends and the ocean begins?

When you believe in things that you don’t understand—then you suffer…

Why does the sweetness that sometimes arises in “stillness”—that sense of arriving somewhere important—seem more valuable than everything else? My mind ranks experience that places bliss above non-bliss, absorption above distraction. Who appointed it to judge? It’s not that important, maybe.

When I chase these unique moments, am I not following the same old habit of wanting, avoiding, grasping, and rejecting? The very pattern that created the chasm I’m trying to dissolve?

Questions and answers arise from the same place of wanting to know where I stand, wanting some ground beneath these shifting waters.

A mind attempting to control itself seems like a wave trying to flatten itself. Yet complete surrender feels equally confused. Where is the middle way that neither grasps nor abandons?

I might prefer clear skies to stormy ones, but does that mean I must spend my life fleeing clouds? What happens when engagement expands to hold all appearances firmly—wanted and unwanted, pleasant and painful, without needing them to be different?

The moment I think, “I have arrived” or “I am content,” haven’t I already created its opposite? The reference point shifts, and suddenly, there’s a new distinction—arrival versus journey, contentment versus discontent. Another division appears where momentary wholeness stood.

If everything could ever feel this real forever—if anything could ever be this good again.

Who decides which approach works better—lightning or dawn? Perhaps they’re not different takes but different descriptions of the same event.

The joy that comes and goes—is it really development or just another ever-changing affair? Maybe the one who watches rewards and failure arrive and depart sees more than the one who sticks with presence or absence.

Everyone might recognize both the pull toward exceptional moments and the seeing through that very pull. Everyone might know both the whisper of learning and the reminding alert, not as alternatives but as voices in the same chorus, speaking to different parts at various moments.

You are always welcome.