Except the love we can give ourselves, everything else is temporary relief. I’m finding this to be truer and truer as each day goes on, as I watch my mind more closely, I see the immense struggle to comfort myself, and nothing works, because nothing is really concrete. We are only ourselves, and only have ourselves, and those selves are fluid and in flux anyhow. Not that comfort is impossible, but it will look immensely different than we anticipate. It is not in anyone or anything else that we can find love or freedom, but only in ourselves. How strange, how contradictory. Terrifying. How to ease my loneliness? My gut wrenching loneliness. We are all alone. We are all perhaps figments of each others minds, part of this fragile web of creation. Samsara. Maya. These big words that contain all of existence, the 10,000 things. There’s more than that of course.
My Buddhist readings suggest that I spent time with my loneliness, examine it, familiarize myself with it’s shape and qualities. How is this done? Perhaps what I’m doing right now. Creation has a certain loneliness inherent in the process. Bringing what is inside out, and taking what is outside, in. Breathing. Life. It’s all a process of discovery.