It’s all happening in the darkness, a chaos of undifferentiated ether.
And I, the spotlight, make a scene by the turn of my gaze.
And the mind, the prompter, animates the ghosts of this stage, the dormant selves of this world.
And on the basis of this one scene, this here and now, a spatiotemporal world makes itself appear to me.
But all I see and all I have is a scene under the spotlight, an appearance that fades into darkness as I squint.
And in place of the darkness that surrounds this scene, I have imagined a world that extends beyond the here and the now, beyond me.
How paradoxical! The world that appears to contain me is itself contained in my thinking, through my thinking.
The thinking that maintains all things, maintains them in such a way that they must appear outside the thought and the thinking self. Thinking thinks itself out of itself, and that is the birth of the world.
To create is a throwing out of itself, to stand out of oneself; existence is the ecstasy of consciousness.
Returning to the scene, the table and the chair under the dim light, the dark side of the room that is out of my view, the field of appearances that seem to present themselves some as seen, some as heard, and some of felt, this scene is not a part of the world, a mere corner of a city in such and such a country and continent or planet. This scene and arrangement of appearances in it, the flow of appearances that I have labeled sensations and associated with another index called the body or a myself, is the whole universe because it is only in it that I think the universe and myself as an entity in it.
But it is in the nature of thinking to think things as if they were outside of itself; it is in the nature of the scene, the here and the now, to manifest itself as if it were part of a larger whole, and just a moment, and to do so in an unquestionable way. And this is the essence of consciousness, to be in ecstasy while still self-contained. That’s why whenever there’s consciousness, there is world. Whenever there’s consciousness, it surrounds itself by a field of phenomena and embodies itself into the field as if it were a part of the field while it’s truly the whole that contains the field. And consciousness does that every night, when we fall sleep and dream.
Thinking is quite strange! Thinking is a perpetual falling into itself of consciousness. Like a mind that dreams a world and then appears inside it an embodied part of that world, to think is to fall into a labyrinth that is manufactured by thinking itself.
To think is to fall, the fruit of discursive knowledge more discursive knowledge.
The idea of “being a speck of dust in the universe” can’t exist except in an awareness that encompasses that universe, as this idea can’t form except in a mind that’s large enough to include everything conceived in the thought, i.e., the speck and the universe.
The infinity of the universe is not something out there extended beyond reach; rather, this infinity that we think belongs to spacetime, is the infinity of consciousness that is right here and right now. And consciousness, by its nature, makes its own infinitude appear as if it were outside of itself (hence enworlding itself), and in doing so it also makes itself appear as if it were finite. This is the self-transcending nature of consciousness and the very origin of the conception of the idea of “being a speck of dust in the universe.” Only a self-conscious, self-limiting infinity is capable of conceiving of such a paradoxical thought. So much so that consciousness and paradox might even indicate the same thing!
But how about love! Love is the tree of life, the bright side of Eden, the rising, the fruit of unitive knowledge, of return and reintegration. Love is the state of a child who’s absorbed in the scene under the spotlight not caring about what’s outside of it, for that’s all the child seeks, the light, the here, the now.