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By Amaya Gayle Gregory

When I thought I was somebody I had a role to play, impressions to maintain -- mostly impressions inside my head. No one else really held onto images of me. They were too busy hanging onto images of themselves. In a way, it was a suicide, killing the real, the authentic expression aching to get out, in favor of the make-believe, the one I thought would make it possible to be loved.

Now that I am nobody, I am free to be anybody, like a chameleon taking on whatever role appears. Being nobody there is no need to maintain any hold, to preserve any flavor, not even the authentic me which doesn't, which couldn't exist. Life simply flows through this awareness, creating whatever it needs in the moment, discarding each used, and now useless, form as soon as it's played its part. It's wild, it utterly risky and filled entirely with surprise. How could This be tame, secure, or predictable?

Holding onto an identity feels safe but offers a world of limitation ... restriction ... inhibition. Being somebody precludes being anybody, and definitely is the antithesis of nobody. Being somebody locks me in, ties me down, builds a barrier to all that doesn't fit in the small box of me. It even builds walls that cannot be breached, can never be scaled, between me and all others. It boxes me in and boxes the world out.

I am nobody, no thing, so I morph and shift, transform or sustain to meet whatever arises. I am this which changes, the shapeshifting expression of the expressionless, this that has no form, this which appears in form, the display of life which comes and goes, never the same from one moment to the next.

I am the kaleidoscope of light and shadow, bright colors, rich and vibrant hues, turning myself, seeing myself, only myself, for there is nothing but Me in every intonation, every impression.

Nobody is so much more, and so much less, than somebody. Nobody is a leaf floating on the wind, blown from experience to experience with no resistance at all, offering the love and intelligence of Life wherever it goes.

Had I only known -- of course I could not -- I would have jumped into the well, surrendering to what is, long ago. Alas, no one surrenders. Surrender is the re-cognition of nobody. It too, is the shifty changey shapeshifting expression expressing as it wills.

There is no appropriate bio for Amaya Gayle. She doesn’t exist other than as an expression of Consciousness Itself. Talking about her in biographical terms is a disservice to the truth and to anyone who might be led to believe in such nonsense. None of us exist, not in the way we think. Ideas spring into words. Words flow onto paper and yet no one writes them. They simply appear fully formed. Looking at her you would swear this is a lie. She’s there after all, but honestly, she’s not. Bios normally wax on about accomplishments and beliefs, happenings in time and space. She has never accomplished anything, has no beliefs and like you was never born and will never die. Engage with Amaya at your own risk.

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