I am in an 'Allan Watts' kind of mood right now, I will probably listen to him later on - via the youtube.

I don't know what my point is today, it's more of a non point or a space between the points. So I will just go ahead and put the words into the text box, and let life figure the rest out. I don't feel particularly excited or inspired, I feel OK with life, I feel still. I feel no need to go anywhere or do anything. But I have come to write this post because I have read that consistency is good here on Steemit, so we write and we share when we feel pumped up, and also when we feel quiet and still.

A past me considered internet points to be a worthwhile pursuit, and a future me probably will too. Today I am just going to put the words onto the screen by pressing the keys on the keyboard. There's a simple pleasure in these movements that I have done so many times before. How have I taken for granted the ability to type words rapidly without even looking at the keyboard? It's an everyday miracle that I almost never notice. How am I so ignorant to the life I am living through? It is truly baffling.

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Contentment is not glitter and sparkles, it is quiet. Some joys are loud and boisterous, as they announce themselves to the world. If our joy needs to be recognized then what kind of joy is it? Is it our innate joy and radiance, or is it a fleeting joy of the mind?

Contentment just is - in it's quiet way. It will not announce it's arrival, and could probably be easily overlooked.

What is there in the quietness of the back yard in the evening? I went out and I stood in the cold air, I looked around and nothing pulled my attention so I just stood there. And I found a quiet satisfaction in just standing. Why am I always doing something? What is this relentless urge to do and to be something? Today it's not here and I almost thought something was wrong, but my seeing has changed to recognize that this is a state that is good. This is a natural state, and the restlessness gets put on top like a dessert topping.

Occasionally we have to slow down and recognize that all of this meaning is our own game. Are we willing participants? It might make sense for a moment, but very soon it dissolves into the nothingness that it was woven out of. We can cling to our 'version of events', but it is a kind of falsehood that makes us bitter. This is because the being-ness knows that nothing is beyond simply being, nothing is beyond this vast emptiness that contains everything.

All of this thought and action occurs in a space that must have existed prior to those actions. A great big still space. Surely it is divine to feel that we are also a big still space that contains everything, surely it is divine for us to feel content with what is. Surely it is a blessing to not need to make any story about it, to just live it and to be it.

Yet somehow I have managed to make a story out of it anyway. To convey in a muddled way - this way of being. A way of being that just is and needs no introduction. It is a very satisfying thing to talk about, even though in the end it will not leave you with any conclusions. In this way it's a kind of deception, yet it is certainly no greater deception that the one we pull on ourselves everyday - working up with great enthusiasm the idea that we are these stories are characters that we claim to be, when we know very well that we are nothingness. We are nothingness having a great time playing the game of pretending, and in this sense I can hardly take it seriously can I?