With the scene of the bedroom window, the dainty tips of the young birch trees, the roof tops and the pale blue sky I am gently alert, sitting on the creaking wicker chair looking at the scene with curious eyes. As I move to each component of the scene, let's say the chimneys, the other parts of the composition are, by being out of focus, no longer truly what I previously called them; the tree tips are only the vaguest of forms- brown-ish, stick-ish and whether they are swaying or not is now in doubt; I perceive some movement but I can no longer be sure. In the end, I cannot determine any of the forms unless I am narrowly attentive to them. So it is, I believe, with any of my doubts, beliefs,ideas, knowledge, convictions, prejudices, truths and any other of the contents of my thinking. Once I pay full attention to one of the components now the rest of them de-forms, fragments as if the robustness of its form was only me-specific. Thus the grand delusion of all mental constructs reveals itself.

And if I spread my eyes across the whole scene necessarily nothing is in-focus; everything is given an equal, formless, motionless value. And then, even more alarmingly, I notice that my hand is in the toaster turning a blacker shade of brown !

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