the stories I tell

The stories I tell make my past, my future, my world. 

The world is not something solid: it’s made up only of the stories I’m telling myself.

Everything that happens is a projection of the mind.

Lost in an illusion of separation I perceive outside what I don’t want to see inside.

Both inside and outside are unreal.

There is only mind, the maker of thoughts, including the thought of “me.”

Everything can be totally forgiven precisely because it does not really exist.

Forgiveness overlooks the illusion and aims our vision at the truth.

Reality is our mind at home in undivided wholeness.