Is this really who you are
Or is it a figment of imagination?
Is this really all that you’re made from
Or is it also what the skin covers?
And if there is a self
Where exactly is that self?
Is it in the putrid body
That finally rots and dies?
Or is it in the imagination
That delights in life as if it were eternal?
The soul that is within
Is pure and formless consciousness.
It is not your body
It is not your imagination.
It has no self
It wants no self.
It only waits patiently
In peaceful serenity
In utter humility
To get out of that prison;
This putrid body
This crazed imagination
And this foolish world.


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