Return back to Earth.
The hands are typing on the computer. While writing, they ground thoughts, thus redeeming them. Thus, the mind rejoices. Because the thoughts find an outlet, they no longer remain in the air and they do not take the mind there with them. Therefore, the mind ascertains that, when the hands write, the thoughts cannot make him fly in the air anymore. He sees now clearly that the hands, while laboring and producing work, they hold him tight here on Earth, on the field of real life, not his own imaginary life.
And this fills him with joy; the joy of life. Because the joy of the air is so futile, so exhaustingly futile…, so mercilessly vain and temporal, immaterial, fake. There the ideas remain ideas. Life is wasted in the air. Time goes with no return. The one idea succeeds the other and the frivolous mind insists on staying there, as if it would ever be possible to find there, on those heights, an idea to give an end to his quest.
Illusions and self-deceptions; the mind consciously falls into them, because this is the way he has been educated, to wander without purpose in the air. This is what he has learned, this is what he has been used to doing for decades and he is honestly too lazy to change this habit. And this habit is a superpower when it plays at home, in the air.
On the contrary, when it plays away from home, on Earth, the habit of the mind to wander aimlessly can only win the match with great difficulty, because the organized way of thinking prevails on Earth; it focuses the mind on one direction, on one goal, which is the fulfillment of the “earthly” desires, aspirations, visualizations, ideals and other goods.
Here on Earth the situation is different. Here the mind sees the formed image of each one of his thoughts black and white on the paper. As soon as the hand writes it down, he feels that he has the right to forget it, he is no longer anxious not to lose it. Thanks to the fact that the hands write, the mind no longer feels the need to go back to the same thoughts again and again.
Apart from this, as soon as he sees the image of his idea imprinted on paper, the mind becomes better acquainted with it. He becomes able to discriminate and sees more clearly its true dimensions, its true value. He relates it with the previous and the subsequent ideas; at last, it is the first time that he forms an organized association with a selected goal, having set his liberation as his ultimate goal. These conquests are brand new for the mind and for me, his manipulable pet dog, as well.
So, again the hands turned up. I am now convinced that the hands are the place where Truth is hidden. The hands are not Truth in their own right; they are only a small part of Truth. This is what my intuition tells me, as well as my logic, or, to say it better, my heart. For the hands are but two limbs; they are not the center, they are not the trunk. The limbs are unable to be the whole Truth. Truth should be located at the center. Truth is the force which moves the hands.
The hands serve Truth humbly; they are not deceived into believing that they are Truth in their own right. The hands do not have an individualized ego; they are by nature absolutely befriended with the role of the faithful servant who is a humble part of the whole. How then could they ever believe something so arrogant? Their very nature is service; for its sake alone they have been created by their creator.
The hands do not vindicate anything else; nothing else exists for them beyond selfless service. Vindication is an unknown, nonexistent notion for them. The hands are free from the notion of vindication by their nature, because they do not have their own autonomous mind to build in them the conviction of having an autonomous ego and provide them with ideas about how to preserve and grow this ego.
The force which motivates now, at one o’ clock in the night, my hands to continue writing instead of letting me cocoon into the sweet oblivion of sleep is my will to search deep into my experiences in order to find the way towards freedom. The force which motivates my hands is the pain of my many years of slavery inside the web of the undisciplined tyrannical mind, who ruled over me tyrannically and still does to this day. The hands now serve my will for freedom, of which the progenitor and inexhaustible provider is pain. In other words, my hands now render willful and conscious service to my will to free myself.