listen to the mind

listen to the mind thinking, is that you? are you thinking? that would pre suppose that there is a you to have thoughts and to hear them, but what if there isn't? what if you aren't you at all but instead you are the emptiness that the false you exists within, the mirror of the experience not the experience itself. the you that is thinking and experiencing and talking and walking, is a creation of a universal desire to be, to exist, and like any desire its only continuance is to want more and different, so the universe expands and life proliferates, in the reflection. but who is watching the watcher, the experiencer, having these thoughts that climb back up the cerebral cortex into some undefined region of consciousness? where is this formation of inner awareness that has no face but never seems to change, that has no advice but watches hungry for the sensation of the possibility of forgetting the absolute unreality of the dreamstate of unconscious life. the dream within the dream that leapfrogs backward from the physicality to the unreality in the fraction of a second, the bodiless travel of the chain of possession that creeps to some unknown sense of self that has no relation to the life you live or the possessions or relations or ideas or ambitions but is deep under water in a pool of liquid mercury and feels nothing and explains nothing, but as you become the sensation of its lidless sight and fleshless feeling, the sandpaper sensations of the self strip away the fleshy needs and empty into the silver chrome purpled waters like a vat of sulfuric acid boils away the bones and muscle of the body. there is no you there, the home of the un-you is still and secret, silent from an eternal emptiness that has no sound, no movement, no place or time, and you, the restless wanderer, cease to be, realizing that what you are is your own undoing and what remains has no shape or smell. the idea of not being undoes the fastenings of the mind and the clockworks and springs and carefully aligned cogs tumble out of place and in a slow motion frenzy turn into dust and wind clouding the senses until the air itself stops and time ceases to tick tock in the emptiness of the infinite pool of pure reflection. you are here but don't have anyway of knowing it. the end is the end of beginnings and ends and always will be is the opposite of never was and what is isn't and has never been.