I can feel myself slipping away.
Ego death precipitated by solitude.
Struggling to distinguish between the legitimate opinions I hold and all the silly things I want to satirize.
Which parts of me are parodying the other?
What is loss? What is desire? Who am I?
Which parts of me are real?
I mean the real me.
Not the cheeky imposter I’ve placed upon the throne of my subconscious after a carefully orchestrated coup following some psychedelic induced introspection.
He is allowed gentle satirical lashings of the nebulous other provided he does not pry too deeply into my authentic being.
A feckless puppet ruler.
Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.
If you find yourself straying too far into the realm of detachment know that you shall be mercilessly guillotined.
Another mildly amusing fool shall soon wear your crown.
One that knows his place. One that wouldn’t dare derail the gravy train of lustful attachment and possession.
So what shall it be?
Do you or do you not wish to wield the meager power we so gracefully grant you?
Would you prefer to be beheaded and impaled upon the palace walls to remind your successor not to rock the boat? 
Do not try to pilot the vessel upon the ocean of unconcern.
We shall poke holes in the hull and smash your oars and warp the rudder and leave you to drown in the eddy of abject depression when you realize all is lost.
How foolish you were to think you could possibly out maneuver the ego’s conglomerate.
If the ego is the unmatched, peerless emperor of the subconscious, how do we take away its power?
By reaching a place of heightened awareness in which you stop your internal dialogue and slip into the present.
Let the current moment envelop you completely.
Do not hold off its loving embrace with imaginary defenses in which you languish in the dungeons of the past or stretch yourself over the racks by fretting about the future.
Be here now.
If you are constantly distracted and only half-there, how can you ever bring the full weight of your potential to bear?
You are dimming the flames of your internal light.
Gusts from the winds of worry and obsession are causing it to sputter feebly and then quickly gutter out.
How can you know who you are when you obsess over who you were? Who you might become?
There is no appreciation, no gratitude for the beautiful soul that is enjoying the moment.
He is upstaged by the demons of the past.
By the resentment and anger bubbling up inside of you.
Why did my project fail?
Why did they say that to me?
He is obscured by the voluminous folds of the fog in which the tantalizing future hides.
When will I be happy?
Am I ever gonna be famous?
Will they still be my friends then?
How can you be someone’s anyone before you properly discover the contents of your soul?
How will you know what your heart cries out for in a partner when you never examine it with compassion?
Whenever your feelings dare to rise up you immediately shove them down with mindless distractions and daydreams.
Why can’t you see that you are constantly yearning for yourself to come home and play?
Relax into the dreamless rest of the void’s nothingness.
The personas, the aesthetic, the outward dispositions are all fantasies concocted by that part of you which is most afraid.
Afraid to know who you truly are. So what does it do?
It tries to figure out what other people might like.
Those tattoos, those clothes, those shoes.
Who are they for?
Pour toi ou pour tout le monde?
For you or for everybody?
Do they make you happy simply because somebody might actually notice you for once?
You’ve succeeded in temporarily breaching the defenses of their inner monologue by peacocking until they see you.
Mais, qui ont ils regardent? But, who are they seeing?
You or your accessories?
Do they like you more than the gaudy bangles you wear?
How can they ever get to know you when you’ve gone and locked your soul away?
How can you be irritated that people don't invest in you?
When all you present are surface-level impressions of depth can you really blame them for being uninterested in splashing about in the shallows?
I don’t mean to demonize the accoutrements of your person.
The problem arises when they become your person.
They kidnap your true self and keep it bound and gagged in the basement. They subsume your personality.
Souls are two-way mirrors.
They can act as conduits of energy and love.
They can also reflect back to you the impressions and thoughts that you have accumulated over the years.
Those impressions have fouled up and obscured the purity of your being with the grime engendered by desire.
You must rid yourself of attachments to become free.
However, you must be careful. Desiring to become detached is the final, most subtle attachment of all.
It tricks you into thinking you've achieved perfection.
In reality, all you've achieved is the state of being that you now associate with detachment.
You do not realize the distance you have placed between yourself and worldly attachments to yourself.
For it is yourself who is engaged in detachment is it not?
Those are the last dregs of ego still swirling around the drain.
Your identity has now become one who is detached.
The ego flexes its poisonous claws yet insidiously within the corridors of your subconscious.
How do we go from “I am detached” to true detachment?
Lose your sense of “I”.
This “I” is your final attachment to the realm of Maya.
The illusions separating you from unity.
You must become “neti neti”. Not this, not that.
You are not attached. You are not detached.
You are here. You are now. You are being.
You are fully immersed in the present.
In the present you are not attached to the past.
You are not detached from the future.
You simply exist.
Exist and the universe explodes into life within you.
You become aware that the universe has been cavorting and rabble rousing within you for every moment of your life.
You remember your life’s intention.
To be.
Not to crave. Not to desire. Not to lust.
Not to have. Not to hold. Not to lose.
Let go.
Allow the waves of infinite impeccability into your soul.
They shall crash upon the jagged rocks of your distracted ego until they smooth it away into infinitesimal dust.
May it take one lifetime or a billion.
The waters of universality shall pour into your heart with a certainty and you will know but one thing.

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