It doesn't matter what I say or do, because from now to now, I'm just pouring myself out on the sand. There it goes. There it goes.
What I'm seeing is a reflection of such delicate fragility that one drop of million-year-old rain sets all of it dancing into chaotic, nonsensical patterns. The stability is entirely illusory. Yet, there are aeons. There are patterns. There are things and sensations. I live on the famed holodeck, and I, myself, am but one more hologram perceived by another. Oh--and all this creation is entirely mutual--so mutual that it's singular. So singular that it's nothing.
Part of this beauty is that there is absolutely no way, as the Singular Nothing, to be attached to anything, any experience, regardless of any apparent longevity. There must be some form of separation to make up an attachment...the struggle to let go may as well be an attempt to hang on. It is futile. Either way, it is all experienced thoroughly, deeply, nothing missed. Love does that.