An Intimate Life

Life is not a thing to hold at arm’s length. In fact it can’t be. But it will seem to be as long as it is intermediated by thought. That very act creates the perception of distance. It prevents the flowering of a real life. A life that doesn’t feel far away, that doesn’t feel separate. A life that is so close you cannot distinguish it from yourself. You see only one harmonious thing. Raw, beautiful, all-consuming. Your thoughts about life dissolve in the experience of it. Your very sense of self implodes, replaced only by the raw experience of the moment. It leaves no doubt that this, finally, is real life. The thing you were seeking in the very core of your being. The thing you knew you would one day find, even if you didn’t know how.

It’s difficult not to speak romantically of life when one’s experience of it becomes so intimate. There is a deep, genuine affection for existence that comes when it is experienced without the weight of the self. And this affection spills over into every relationship, every interaction. Because how could it not? It comprises the very fabric of your being. Life is a love affair with reality. Or rather it’s reality having a love affair with itself.