I notice myself thinking. There doesn't seem to be much to it but a lot of prejudged commentary about how and what and when and why things are. Thoughts for me are kind of a cheap mystery novel.
When I let go, I still see a kind of thought, but it is less involved with a longwinded definition of who I am. It's more like receiving than labeling, more like learning about the way things are than cataloging. And there are so many levels to the information available; levels that reveal how quiet feels, the song of letting go's consonance with nature, and the falling away of time and space.
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