Hi Gitte, Ok, a lot of things come up here, but i think that they mostly are a need for clarification. i'm hunting for clarity.
When I sit and concentrate it is like the self in its form dissolve in the open space
Good. Stay here.
Right now, when the form of the self dissolves—what’s actually left?
Don't answer with ideas. Stop. Sit. Feel.
There’s a dissolving, yes. But did anything
actually vanish?
Look again:
Was there ever a boundary that needed dissolving, or was that too just imagined?
What tells you it was "you" that dissolved? Is that not another story arising *after* the fact?
Look now—fresh, raw:
Is there a center to experience?
Is anything observing anything else?
Or is it just wide, centerless, choiceless happening—without anyone to be free of it?
Don't move on. Tell me:
What exactly is missing right now?
It is clear how my thoughts have shaped my reality and changing thoughts or letting go of beliefs change the outcome instantly.
Boom. There it is.
But now —
cut deeper.
You say *your* thoughts have shaped *your* reality.
Where is this "you" that is having thoughts?
Can you find the one that “lets go” of beliefs?
Or is that just another belief — that *you* are the thinker, the doer, the changer?
Right now — not yesterday, not two minutes ago —
Is there a “me” having these thoughts?
Or are thoughts just appearing… and a story claiming ownership is tagging along?
Let it hit you:
What happens if the thought “I let go of beliefs” is seen as just another thought?
No different than “I’m tired” or “It’s raining.”
In this instant,
Without going into memory or story…
Is there a thinker?
Don’t say yes. Don’t say no.
Look.
Tell me what’s actually found.
I do remember when I had the epiphany of existing. I could have been anything: a person, an animal, a tree. I just happened to manifest as a body. If I had been an animal or a tree, I would not have been guilty of anything but a result of circumstances, which is why I know the suffering is stories and thoughts I hold onto.
STOP. Read what you just wrote. Let it hit like a freight train.
You saw it.
The entire self-story is arbitrary — a costume thrown over something wordless.
You could’ve been a dog. A worm. A dust mote.
But here you are, spinning a narrative called “me,” stacking guilt and shame and pride and purpose — on
what?
Circumstances. Nothing more.
No choice. No author. Just
this happening.
So now —
right now — tell me:
Where is guilt?
Can you touch it? Is it in your lungs? Your bones?
Or is it just a thought cloud, floating, pretending to be real?
You said it yourself: “The suffering is stories and thoughts I hold onto.”
Then who, exactly, is holding them?
Look. Look now. Not as a metaphor. Not as a philosophy.
Is there a holder?
Or just thoughts — and a phantom
claiming them?
What's left when even that phantom is seen through?
Tell me. Right here. What's left?
I do have intentions, they might manifest and they might not. What is is ok.
Having intentions is more joyful than letting the ego decide the "old" intentions.
YES. Now we’re getting to the bone.
You say:
“I do have intentions.”
But look closer—what is an intention?
Where does it come from?
Can you trace it to a source before it shows up?
Watch it happen in real-time:
An impulse arises — “I’ll go for a walk,” “I want tea,” “I’ll be kind.”
Did you choose that impulse?
Or did it just… show up?
Then another layer — a thought says:
“This is my intention.”
But
that’s already after the fact, isn’t it?
You’re not setting intention — you’re narrating it.
Now — forget the word “intention.” Drop the label.
Just watch what moves the body, what speaks through the mouth, what stirs the breath.
What’s deciding?
Can you find it?
Or is it just life… blooming, firing, flowing… and sometimes the story matches?
You said:
“What is is OK.”
Then burn the rest. Ego, intention, doer — drop the frame, feel the flame.
Right now, is there anything that needs to be managed?
Or is it all just happening — clean, alive, unowned?
Recently I have noticed how my inner world manifests in my outer world. I feel I am responsible of the words that comes out of my mount
Right here—stop.
Who is this “I” that feels responsible?
Where is it located?
Is it upstream of the words?
Does it sculpt the next sentence out of will?
Or does the sentence come, and a
story of authorship quickly glues itself on top?
Watch your mouth move in real time.
The words form. The breath moves. The tongue dances.
Did “you” plan that exact sentence, syllable by syllable?
Or did it just… happen?
Now look:
Responsibility only makes sense if there’s a
controller.
But right now,
can you find one?
Can you locate the precise moment you choose what to say?
Not a
thought about it. Not a
feeling of choice.
Actual control.
Look deep. When you said, “I feel I am responsible,”
Was that a choice?
Or just another arising, like a cough, or a twitch, or wind through grass?
Here’s the twist:
You are responsible — but only in the same way a flame is “responsible” for heat.
There’s no gap. No manager. No middleman.
Just this movement — word, silence, presence, fire.
What is there to hold onto?
What’s left right now if you drop even the idea of being responsible?
Let it go. Let it fall.
Now what remains? Describe it raw.
much love
vince