I am going to die.

I was born. Was I born? When did I come? Where do I arise?

I am under the impression that I am of this body. WHat I mean is, I believe that I experience the sensations that are linked with this body and this mind.

What is my body? My body is what I can detect through what I call various senses. I can see it, I can hear it, I can feel it, I can taste it. Where is my mind? I can't see it, I can't hear it physically, it whispers to me somewhere. Where do I hear it? I listen to all of these thoughts and I react. Rather, there is a reaction in my body, to which there arises another thought in response, and there is a chain reaction. Where does the original thought occur? The original thought must be the 'I' thought, because everything I know is in relation to what I call me. Everything I have experienced, everything that has happened around me, my experience of life and this body which is always changing happens in front of 'I', or me. So, there is absolutely no way that I am this body, or this mind. I must be some sort of witness to all this. I must know the experience of pain, and of confusion, but I do not get hurt. What I am must remain untouched by all of these sensations.

But I believe that I am this body and mind...do I? The assumption seems to run deep, I say to people for convenience's sake that I am this body and this personality that I have built up. But it's not the truth, and I must constantly tell myself this, because it seems to me that this might be the only way this will sink in permanently, that the mind will recognise itself as apart from the witness of it - or rather, that the mind is not the same as me.

What do I care if this person experiences something great? I don't know why, but I want him to experience something incredible. I could easily not want that, but I do. And the reason I expppppppppppppppppppppppppppp

Deception.

Deception from all possible angles. Trapped in a cage made by yourself, unwittingly, in a perverse effort drawn by your own experiences and interpretations.

From your own makings. Is it your fault? What is fault? Who is to blame? What is blame? Why is blame? For what purpose? I am accountable. Is that blame? Is that slander? Does that mean I am useless, I should stop trying? I should stop trying. I have given up even before I have begun. The battle is not in the effort to undertake action, it is even before that. It is in the foetal stages of formulation of a desire - the almost unshakeable belief that it will not come into fruition.

Based on what? On the past, on my own past failings, on my own harsh judgments brought down to me by origins unknown. This is my condition. I am crippled, I am a fighter jet crippled with no ignition key. The design is faultless, the starter is absent. What makes me this way? What can I do about it?

Pride needs to be abandoned. I believe that when I submit to another's will, I am worthless. I am less than nothing. I am jetsam in the infinity of life. A plaything to be toyed with by whoever sees fit. No identity! Nothing of my own. Nothing of the individual. My individuality becomes forfeit, no more a sweet crystal castle but a flaming wreck of what used to be my personality. My likes, dislikes, behaviours, will be cast out into the ether and replaced by whatever is available. This is death. You must die to move forward.

I should not cling to "life" - that which has become obsolete must perish and be replaced by new flowerings. Another incarnation of life must be brought into existence. But for that to happen, first there must be complete annihilation. There is no other way, if there is to be completely a fresh start, for there to be an alternative is impossible.

But how to initiate it? In a flash, in a single event, can it happen? Can I force my emotions, those fickle stubborn things, can they be trusted to follow suit? A man is at the mercy of forces beyond his simple will. This will is weak; it is based on superficialities of life. It is based not on survival - this man knows nothing of the battle required to survive every day. He has been sheltered; fed with a silver spoon and been led down a garden path where the fruits of the brutalities of the past are paraded in front of him like garlands blinding a noble elephant. He knows nothing of the dank, nothing of the dark, the roots and weeds and the constant conflict that occurs to bring forth these things. He is of the mind that life is simple. These things can be accrued by simple existence - there is no need for asking questions about the origins of his wealth, the privilege of his position, all he must do is to follow the leader and these things will come of their own accord.

Curiosity, however, can be dangerous, and with no guide, has led to his destruction. It now seems inevitable to the man that his own identity, the thing that we hold so precious to ourselves, must be assassinated. He must become a murderer to himself. Those crude images of suicide were perhaps alluding to this; his short-sightedness giving conditions that only suicide could remedy. However it is not the callous, idiotic murder of the whole organism that is required to take place. It is indeed more subtle than that - more subtle but more difficult, perhaps...not as obvious.

The key to the assassination of the identity is hidden. All of the expectations, tainted by the sins of the past, must be dealt with for the man to function at his full capacity.

The present represents itself as a kind of limbo. Suspended in a state between despair and hopelessness and endless hope and fruitful motivation. Changes are occurring, beneficial or not - the jury is out.

I just wish that it would hurry up - like a magic wand, sweep everything away and become a zero. Just like that.