What if it all fell apart?

What if one day we told the secrets and transcended the questions that keep us stuck, looking for answers that aren’t there?

What if we allowed ourselves to think that anything was possible, that there were no limitations, no hurt feelings, no real consequences following the ultimate collapse?

What if we let imagination play with us instead of the other way ‘round?

What if we lived in the spirit of hopelessness? Acknowledged that the 10-tier house of cards was a painstaking, master artwork and a total sham?

A game we play for security’s sake. For illusion.

What if we realized that we create illusions to construct a reality that makes us feel secure?

But that reality is, in its trembling, vulnerable way, far more beautiful if only we watched it, really watched it, like witnessing the stars fade into dawn.

Stand beside the house of cards. Take a gigantic breath, or just a little one, and let it out.

Watch what happens.

Nothing. You’re still there. Everything is still the same.

But now there is space and weightlessness.

You touch the beautiful insecurity that was always there.

What if we took off our socks and lay them down on the kitchen countertop next to the carrot tops we meant to do something with? Alongside our guilt for not creating the perfect home, the perfect life, the perfect problem. (It’s all part of the perfect story).

And then walk barefoot right into an honest, courageous existence?

There’s no clinging to or not clinging to. We don’t have to burn anything, drop the bag, or give up the ghosts.

It’s all cleverly designed to force a duality upon nature that doesn’t exist so we can finally have answers to problems we don’t really have.

What if we could see past dichotomies?

Everything is already in harmony as we flail around looking for the wholeness, all the while creating more separateness, mostly from ourselves.

In our big houses and piles of stuff that look solid and nice but don’t speak up for us when the truth comes knocking, strolls in with filthy shoes, and slumps down on the couch, looking to stay while.

None of it says, No! Stop! It can’t be that way! It completely deserts us.

What kind of security is that?

The books slide off the shelf, the paint drips away, the floor melts. The water picks up a centrifugal force and washes away, down the drain, gone.

The membrane dissolves.

You drop.

And then you get back up and carry on with living, breathing, watching it all with an expanded, hopeless view.

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