if randomness is

if randomness is possible for a being that has no control or function except to witness, I see the earth as the plaything and all its inhabitants as toys of an incredibly brilliant and deadly creature of infinite power. and the brilliance is in the seduction of the awareness to take on consciousness of itself, to not only be aware but to sense the source of awareness as a point in this creation not completely free and undefined. I imagine the power to be fishing in a bucket filled with awareness and baiting the hook with desire, to exist, to imagine something matters, anything. and then to wrench that fishing pole out at the first nibble, setting the hook deep in the folded layers of wonderment and attraction, setting the catch into the pond of existence and illusion. here we are nothing attached to the brain stem of the illusion making machine being fed a constant stream of experiences that trap the awareness into pleasurable acceptance and identification, like the prisoners of the cinema watching first a love story then the holocaust comes. trapped by love they await the ending certain this cannot be the end then feeling the life slipping away as the screen darkens and falling into a deep slumber forgetting the source of pre-existence and the undying truth of awareness. nostalgia pulls the nothing back into a body, to re-experience the love the sweetness and then to suffer the horrors of its loss and destruction. all is the play and the veil of maya-prakriti the endless dance of seduction and entrapment. who is you asks the joker, as the suits and dresses and friends and possessions and beliefs slide uncomfortably away, leaving not just naked but disembodied and unconnected, the feeling of utter aloneness and unfamiliarity with who is it that is alone. to be alone without even yourself for company an aloneness beyond self, the hole in the middle of doughnut is the meal your here to eat. certainly after an eternity of identity, this is not possible to experience or should I say not experience because there is no one left in that place or time, no locus or congestion of eddies in the ether to be excited or affected. the last shred of who is you is nothing, the black hole in the center of everyone, the void of the self that everything is a distraction from. welcome to the truth, the massive lie of the creation, that anything remains when the show is over, awareness has no friends or possessions or place to be. it doesn't exist but existence is impossible without it. somehow everything is in it but it is not in anything. all is the result of its sacrifice but nothing alone is the result. the truth of the inner search is random, without meaning, it must be not experienced as there is no thing to be.