It’s very silly to tap into a part of the mind that deals in falsehood. It talks and blathers all night long and keeps you crazy all through the day, whispering lies that, if you took them seriously, would leave you all bundled up in a chrysalis of confusion—a total paralysis, I mean, in the act of reflecting on the self. Ignore the voices that confuse your sense of being and tell you that the fundamental things you thought you could trust in are lying on shoddy ground. These little devils of thought try to upset your peace by pulling at the very strings of the heart-core and flipping upside-down your notions of what’s really important. “You thought you knew yourself,” the voices say, “but you’ve been deceived all along.” Then they proceed to tell you some absurdity that would make you miserable if it were true—or, actually, it makes you miserable to consider precisely because it’s untrue. The tension between the truth and the untruth of a thing leads to bodily effects and you can feel it in your whole being, this clash between what reflects reality and what is merely a devilish confusion meant to lead you astray. Listen to the simpler voice that speaks to your inmost part. Joy is meant to be our lot, not self-fracture and distress.
Why shouldn’t I share the things I write? Is it vain to desire it? Why do I bother so much about vanity and the danger of being too caught up in the self? It ends up being more stifling than anything else. Why not acknowledge my humanness and say, Yes, um-hum, it’s fine and proper and very normal and even good to share the things you make. It’s all right to want affirmation and a sense that you belong. Why do I try to quash these things, believing them to be residue of fullness (rather than emptiness) of self? It makes for a difficult relationship with myself. I can’t keep trying to perfect myself all the while squeezing myself into nonexistence. It just won’t work that way!