For In Every Thing The Purpose Must Weigh With The Folly.

There is no goal, save what is. The goal is achieved always. Whatever the story of a life seems to be, whether filled with goals and purpose or directionless frustration, each apparent circumstance is fulfilled life, existing, miraculous. Whether that circumstance is a deep hell, filled with mental and emotional suffering, or a shining path, wherein all past misdemeanors have been dealt with and life seems light and whole, life is doing as it must, always. The hell is not happening to you, it is happening. The light is not a pleasure to be maintained, it is just light. But whether there seems someone to claim these circumstances or not, life is life, and does what it must, unconcerned of whether there is perceived separation or not. We are all lived, whether we think so or not; our thoughts are not ours, nor are our feelings. We long for home, whether we realise it or not; the paradox seems to be that we are already home, for even separation is oneness. There is nothing else. If the story is noticed, goals may seem to arise, but perhaps they are just for fun. Awakening is not the goal. There is no goal. There is just this.