Words are a limitation of the truth. They take what is limitless and unseparated and slice it into nameable slivers. They are tools, invented in the imagination, to describe an invention of the imagination. All words emerge out of a need to refer to what has been falsely separated (“me,” “you,” “tree,” “ant,” “table,” “friend,” “enemy,” “above,” “below,” “good,” “bad”).
Reality is what is aside from anything I’m thinking and believing about it. Reality is prior to thought, outside of thought. So how can I possibly use thought to name it and be telling the truth?
I find I cannot. I can only tell lies. Including this one.
There is nothing wrong with this (there is no other way to speak). It’s just useful to be aware that everything spoken is invented. And the only place anything I say holds up is within my invention.
When I’m aware of it, I can release myself from the distraction of the illusion of separation. When I do that, I can take with a grain of salt all the words that support and amplify the illusion.
The closest I can get to speaking the truth is to point my words toward the truth. When they no longer convince me of what isn’t, I leave myself room to experience the boundless gift of what is.