The Mind Doesn't Exist Either

"I exist," says the voice of the mind.
"I am someone."
"Or I am no one, if that makes me someone."
"I want the world to change."
"I want to change."

Voices. Just murmurs in the dark. Where do they come from? What are they? Who are they?
Have you ever seen who is speaking? Have your eyes ever caught the thinker of the thoughts, the crier of the voices?

For when anger comes, there is only anger. And yet anger is no one. For if there were someone, where did they go when joy arrives? Then there will be only joy, though joy is no one either. How reliable, how consistent, how believable could that someone be?

So, do you believe what you hear? Have you ever been swept away by an urge to satisfy fleeting sensations, to make delirious dreams come true?
Questioning nothing, you chase ghosts. Knowing nothing, you cause wars. Believing during anger that you are anger, you get run over by anger. Believing during joy that you are joy, you get pushed into the hole by joy. Blindness spills you over into the hole, while you trust someone you have never seen.

When you believe it, you obey it. When you believe it, you also fight it. When you believe it, you obey its voice urging you to fight it.

And when you try to lean on that mind, your foot gives way. You fall into the void, because the very voice you listen to tells you it is someone real. But the voice is nothing, and your foot cannot rest on it.
For how much reality does that fantasy have, the one that believes it is real? How tangible is a character playing at existing?

Look closely at who is speaking before you listen.
Just thoughts.
Just sensations.
Just voices, that come and go, that appear and disappear, that you dream and forget.

Is anybody home?