You're typing on a keyboard, but no matter how hard you try, every key you type is wrong; it's all gibberish. You open a book and you can't read any of the letters. You try to scream, but your voice is muted. You think you hear faint voices, but you don't know where they're coming from. The phone rings, but then it's dead. You turn on the television and there's no signal. You walk outside and nobody is around. You walk back inside and inside the bathroom, you look in the mirror and see another person standing behind you. You look behind you, then you look back in the mirror and you are no longer in the mirror either. Suddenly, your whole body is paralyzed. You hear a quiet laughing.
Then you are ripped upwards into the sky with tremendous speed by an unknown force, as if gravity had suddenly been reversed. Within you, you can distinctly feel a dark and scary presence. All the colors and forms of the world swirl around you in a blur, like water in a vortex, and it gets sucked away until there is nothing but endlessly cold darkness. You are alone forever and you can't breathe.
Isn't that one of the hardest feelings to face ever? The inevitable finality of this breath and the inevitable arising that emerges from my craving for this breath...
Beautiful, I have many times noticed myself staring myself down in a mirror. I have this awkward dual feeling of confidence and indelible insecure ache of uncertainty. It's the tinge of mortality, as I coined the feeling, the tinge of knowing the end in the beginning. So I look in the mirror with a funny uncertain discomfort towards what looks back at me. It is the whole composition, the culmination of what I am now, in all the imperfections and illusions that I chase down like ghosts, only to come away with empty hands, and still a salivating hunger and thirst for truth. I see this complex inexplainable intricacy in the being this second that is so simple it's effortless. Just breathe. It's in and out. So easy. And yet, there is this whole other relative level conditional to the finality of any beginning...
It's always like I've known that I have this body, this face, these hands, but they have always failed to define "me" because I never really bought their seeming. That is, I know they're useful and necessary tools for my experience, but I didn't trust in their impermanent nature. Instead, like my dharma peers, I find myself more focused on the quality of being and BEING here, instead of investing into the reasons and treasons of sensory life... I guess it's hard to explain, you did a far better job than I in the first paragraph. Truly evocative to me, I remember what that was like, all the times it happened.
Ooops, I seemed to have spilled my mental droppings again all over your thread... sawwies.