Iāve had plenty of encounters with the realization that my consciousness is a delicate figment of my imagination and that my existence is insignificant. I think I both believed it and didnāt believe it at the same time. Iāve been so proud of my inner world, my sense of self, one that I had cultivated and clung onto my entire life, that even in my most thorough experiences of oneness, there was always some small but strong voice inside me that protested, ābut I must matter!ā Greater than that, I was steadfast in my belief that thisāthis life that I had painstakingly crafted, the doubled-seamed experiences of family and childhood and friendship and love and faith and lossāhad to amount to something.
Well, itās one thing to theoretically entertain the concept that you do not matter and entirely another to viscerally embody itāto embody nothingnessāand ad infinitum.