Sand and Pearls

I’ve noticed my mind is a raconteur, endlessly telling stories as perception instantly becomes history.  Is there a now in between?

As the space between impulses grows, even just enough to recognise it, there is a sudden upwhelming of pure fear.  Not just anxiety; not a nervousness, but sudden terror and then arising within me, an immediate reaching away, reaching, grasping for anything to hook onto.  “Where is the next impulse coming?”  it says, then the terror – maybe there won’t be another impulse.  And as this occurs to me, behind the terror lurks a great grief, an enormous sadness.  Maybe it’s over.  Maybe it isn’t.  Maybe “it” never was — this “I” ; this identity, this Self to which I am so keenly attached.  Nish says, badgering me gently, “Who, who is terrified?  Who is aggrieved?

Whip around – this is your true face before you were born.”