Mindfulness is an illusion

The more I sit in quiet, watching the mind. The more I realize these thoughts are not mine. They come in packets. In waves. Sometimes I feel them coming. The tightness before the worry. The warmth before the love. Sometimes they seem to come from nowhere, unrelated from everything happening around me. 

Memories of life feel the same as memories of dreams. There is no identifiable difference.
And if I don’t grasp at whatever thought comes, it passes by. Sometimes so fast that I barely even see it. 

The further I step back, watching it all unfold, the more it becomes apparent that it’s all thoughts. Even the meta sense of watching the thoughts themselves. There is no me watching. There are only thoughts of watching. Imaginations of experience, no different than the random battery of imagination already occurring. 

Mindfulness is just another thought. Awareness, a thought. Quiet, another thought. 

With each retreat, the mind attempts to identify with a subtler and subtler identity. 

The only thing I am sure of is the presence of something unidentifiable. A silent being that seems inseparable from the space in which it all seems to be occurring. 

At the core, there is only this. 

The flow of light.

The expansion of the universe. 

Experience experiencing itself. 

But even that is too much, there is no experiencer. 

Just experience. 

Just this.

See this, and let it go. Let seeking go. Stop explaining. Stop understanding. These too are thoughts.

See this and let it be.