The light at the end of the tunnel is a mirror.
Your life story, your total allegiance to the content of your consciousness, your commitment to the continuity of your identity as an individual “me”, your preoccupation with its travails and triumphs, all this is a trance, a spell, an enchantment. You — your “me” — is an apparition, an image on a scrim, a stage trick, a ghost. The only thing that makes it seem so real is your continual fixation, truly your unending need to fix it. To mess with your made up self, to fine tune your imaginary friend, to get it right. Because it is wrong. You are wrong. And you need to make it right.
Your memoir, your three-act play, your biopic is being written by you as you go along. Most of the plot is based on what happened in the previous chapters, avoiding the mistakes of, improving on, regretting what we call the past. So for those of you who are smack in the middle of that epic entitled “Life as Me”, Spoiler alert! The hero dies at the end. Your person-ness, your “prisonality” your sense of that “me” that you think yourself to be is a reality show in which you are the central character and also the biggest fan. The show will come to an end, the last page will be written and read, the curtain will come down, the credits will roll, but you, the you that has been here all along thinking of itself as “me”, that you, will remain. That you cannot die. That you is eternal. Let me say it this way: You are eternal.
There is so much more to you than your “me” could ever imagine. And if you knew the You I know you to be, you would laugh, and relax.