Have you ever judged someone by the books sitting on their shelves? Supposedly you can get at least a tiny inkling of what the person is about by his/her reading material.
Or how about peeking into someone's fridge, and making a snap assessment as to that person's LTR potential?
Scary. Anywho, don't judge me by the (lack of) contents of my fridge.
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Here's an excerpt from Confession of a Buddhist Atheist (which I have to finish reading by tomorrow):
When my self is no longer the all-consuming preoccupation it once was, when I see it as one narrative thread among myriad others, when I understand it to be as contingent and transient as anything else, then the barrier that separates "me" from "not me" begins to crumble. The conviction of being a closed cell of self is not only delusive but anesthetic....
To know, deep in your bones, how everything you experience is fleeting, poignant, and unreliable undermines the rationale for trying to grasp hold of, possess and control it. To fully know suffering begins to affect how you relate with the world, how you respond to others, how you manage your own life. For how can I seek lasting solace in something that I know is incapable of providing it?
After reading this it makes me wish I were a squirrel or a downtown owl or any other awesome creature aside from a human. Why do we have to constantly try to find meaning in everything?
Why are we so fearful, and so preoccupied with death? Why can't we just enjoy eating a nut like a little squirrel would?
xo
