Without our fear of death thought form we would be more aware of our past and probable lives (at least the feeling of them, if not the actual thought forms) as well as of the feelings of other people. We’d be able to feel them as our own feelings, as infants do. And thus we’d lose much of our sense of separatedness. That’s how lunatics and magicians live: they still have individual lives, things happen to them, but there’s less of a difference between something happening to them or to someone else. Something which happens to them is no more important than something which happens to someone else. Their feelings are no more important to them than someone else’s feelings.

Death is the blank screen upon which all of our lifetimes are painted. Those lives don’t exist; they’re just momentary plays of light and shadow. However, to us they seem utterly fascinating and absorbing. To get to who we really are we would have to pull all of that obsession (energy pinned down by importance) out of all of those lives. As we do this, we find less and less of what we now consider to be “ourselves”. We find the barriers which separate us from other people and the world around us becoming less and less distinct. It becomes harder for us to feel where we end and the next guy begins.

Death is just a way we keep score, keep count, keep track of things: it’s how we separate this moment from that one, and this lifetime from that lifetime, and me from you. Without death the whole thing would just be one big stew. Death is what props “us” up – if it were not for death we would not have any sense of there being an “us” there at all. After all, what are “we” anyway? The sum total of all our experiences (memories) and expectations (desires). Right? What else is there? Nothing, right?

We, of ourselves, are absolutely nothing. Zero. All we are is something that is going to die. That’s the only reason we have life at all, is to die. We are something that death conjured up, as an afterthought, to give itself a raison d’etre. And then, once it created us, we took off like a lumbering Frankenstein monster, and death tagged along to watch what we did.

All death is doing is watching us. It doesn’t approve or disapprove of what it sees; it isn’t conscience or shame; it just watches dispassionately. And what we are is death watching itself. It has nothing to do with us whatsoever. We are just a reflection in death’s mirror – a symbol for death. We have no primary awareness: just as the moon only reflects light, we only reflect (are a symbol of) death’s awareness of itself. We only exist as death is watching itself through the metaphor of our lives.

And that’s why we say that death is mind: because that sense that we have that we are being watched is our death watching us. Without our death there watching us, we are nothing – nothing but a little point on a random walk through an infinite jungle in which nothing makes any sense whatsoever – there is no rhyme nor reason to anything (no mind). Mind (order) can only exist when there is something there watching the path that this random blip on the screen is taking. And that’s what we call death.

(excerpted from Magical Almanac ezine, http://groups.yahoo.com/group/MagicalAlmanac Copyright © 2007 by Bob Makransky. All rights reserved).

More of Bob Makransky’s articles are posted at: www.dearbrutus.com

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