It is a transformative thing to realize that this moment is this moment. Is not this moment, nor this moment. Each moment is distinct, continuous yet separate from the last and the next moment.
When the mind realizes that, it becomes one with the one and only, which is this single moment. There’s nothing to be carried from the past, or be loaded by the future, because the past and the future are also nothing but their own moment.
Experience is thus essentially discontinuous, even though to live we need to give it a continuous meaning. This thing I call me, this thing that’s aware I’m calling me, is essentially a combination of many, many discrete moments. The sense of commonality carried from the last to the next is what I call my identity. But what is my identity but this made-up continuity?
Every thought is a desire, including this. Every desire is a thought, including this. Every thought is a repetition of the last, yet completely different from the last. It can be as new and as old as I make it. My sense of pleasure and pain can last as long as I make it.
If there is no thought that prolongs time, no thought that sustains thought, is there me? Is there anything? My anxiety and agony are projections of the past onto the future. All is contained in one moment, and all, including this moment, is lost.
That sound emerges. And fades. This moment what do I know of that sound that emerged and faded? When the sound fades, what’s the worth of the memory of the sound? The memory of the sound is really more me, the one that remembers, than the sound, the one remembered.
This moment, and this moment, I want to be faithful to this moment.