We cannot see a grain of sand from inside the grain of sand. The perceiver is not the perceived. The observer is not the observed. The seer is not the seen. Whatever I perceive is not me. Not even this body? Not even that.
New York, New York lyrics: “I’m number one / Top of the list / Head of the heap / King of the hill”
When we stand at the summit of personal achievement, there is only one way to go: Down.
Simplify, reduce, subtract, detach. As Arsenio Hall used to say, “Let’s get busy!”
On whom we depend, we are enslaved by. A good deal of popular music is devoted to the pain and pleasure of this arrangement. The true man is like the sun. Completely unattached.
Are we human sticky buns, glue-meisters clinging to persons, possessions and relationships? Trouble that way lies. Not that persons, possessions and relationships are inherently troublesome. Not at all. But stickiness? That’s the devil.