At the same time as you participate in life, you are also the watcher. Sometimes life seems to be like a train that rushes past you. You just stand there watching what occurs. Then life rushes past you in full view. Whose life is it anyway when you sit on a bench and watch it?
How much of life, that which you call your life, how much of it do you actually decide, you wonder. Is life something you decide or do you merely watch the train? What makes the train hurtle down the tracks. Ah, yes, the train tracks are there. The rails were there before you came on the scene.
Even when you are paddling in a canoe, there seems to be an unseen hand that sweeps you up into an eddy as strong and as determined as the railroad tracks.
You certainly do have say over your life, or do you? How much of your life is your free will? Even when you balk, are you the balker? How self-determining are you?
Of course, there are no coincidences. Where does that leave you then?
The question you ask yourself may be: â€œHow much of my life is my life? Am I 50% the watcher, and 50% the mover of life? Am I the handwriting on the wall? Am I the finger that writes, or do I observe the writing on the wall? Does life appear before my eyes? Do I copy from a text already written? Who is the writer? Who is the one who asks the questions, and who is the one that answers? Is the whole theater of life, even in crowd scenes, really a solo act? Who is it that walks across the stage?â€
Ultimately, I, God, am the Doer. This has to be so because Oneness alone is. You do not really exist at all except as a thought.
It can be said, that I am the Watcher as well as the Doer. I enact multiplicity on Earth, as though I have many dreams all at once, and, still, Oneness alone is.
And why is this enacted life so important to you and, therefore, important to Me when there is no other, when you do not exist, and I alone exist?
And yet, as life is drawn, how does it erupt and often, seemingly, of its own accord?
Life is its own meaning. At the same time, you impose a meaning, and that is your perception. Perhaps there is no writing on the wall. Perhaps there are rolls of wallpaper pasted on the wall. Perhaps the pictures are already painted. Perhaps life is like the flying of a bird who ascends and descends and is beauty in action. Perhaps life is still life. Perhaps, perhaps.
Perhaps nothing at all happens. That must be the case when there is no before or an after or anything at all but Silence, or, perhaps all thought is an afterthought. Perhaps there is no bell that tolls. Perhaps, perhaps.
Perhaps there is no song sung, only a song heard.
Whither goest thou when there is no place to go and no one to leave, and nowhere to enter and no one to make an entrance?
Perhaps all of life is fiction. Perhaps there is perhaps about it. Perhaps stories are created, and there is nothing but story, stories told, stories heard, stories seen. Perhaps all that is called life is fabrication. Perhaps everything on Earth is Letâ€™s Pretend. Perhaps there is no perhaps about it.