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By Amaya Gayle Gregory

I feel the urge to write but I do not know what I would write about. It seems the well is dry ... and then words begin to appear. It's all make-believe anyway, stories in storyland, none of it real, no version better than the others. Does what I write, or if I write matter? No. It seems not at all, and yet, writing appears.

Life can only be deemed good or bad based on a skewed point of view. What makes up any and all points of view? More stories in a world of stories, ideas and beliefs passed along from one concept to another, from one resident of storyland to others entwined in the story.

Anything I write, rather than stripping away the gloss and sheen of the plot's appeal, just adds to the storybook, one more version, one more bit of fluff. It can be no other way and yet, there is this urge than cannot be denied. I do not write but writing happens. What a fascinating thing to watch.

It could feel kind of depressing knowing that there is no truth, no meaning, that it's all a story. It is quite natural and easily understandable, but ... it could also be freeing ... if you're willing and able to set down the meaning you want, the truth you believe you know or hope to uncover and see what's really here. It could be totally freeing, absolutely unnerving removing all the nervous self-protectionism stories running within.

Your life is a story., not right or wrong, left or right, good or bad, happy or sad, but a composite of synthesized beliefs and ideas, thoughts and feelings that coalesce in a wild crescendo right now, right here, seeming real, supplying the seed material for the unrelenting chronicles of you.

Memories, held stories, held and augmented, the hundred thousand ways we rub salt into our own wounds, are nothing but thin air -- so thin as to be non-existent -- until we press the moment between sheets of transparent paper like a spring flower, embalming time so as to possess it and be possessed by it. We truly are our own morticians, filling ghostly scrapbooks with demons and angels, revulsion and longing.

Or ... we can let the dead care for the dead. We can see the story as a story and pitch our scrapbooks into the ocean of now trusting that whatever we need will arise from the depths when needed. We can see that the story is the fear, the fear is nothing but the story.

Without the story there is no need for answers, for truth, for meaning. There is simply aliveness on display, displaying itself in a constantly transforming array of experiences, appearances, sensuously real, a joyride of delight, a bundle of sorrows, a parade of life.

Or ... we can settle for the scraps.

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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