Infinite without a Name

Why can’t I become comfortable in here? It’s as if I’m afraid of moving in any direction. This here is not a physical space, is it? I don’t know what to call it, although I’ve had fifty years to come up with a name. For the first twenty-nine or thirty of those years, much inner space that is now familiar to me remained unknown. Imagining my mind frightened me. Moving around in here isn’t as frightening as it used to be. Yet I’m more uncomfortable than I wish to admit. Doubt seems to meet me with each passing thought, image, and emotion. Pain isn’t my friend, but what do I accomplish by perceiving it as the enemy? Why can’t pain and I become friends? We maintain constant contact whether I like it or not. Constant contact of any kind often overwhelms me. Fear happens, but must it be my constant companion? The last two nouns that have appeared, fear and companion, somehow give me the illusory sense that I’m in control here. Where is “here” now: in my mind or on the page? Maybe here is everywhere, which would help me understand why I’m uncomfortable there. There is here as I move around in my mind.


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