Her bliss makes everything very supple, soft, smooth. The dakinis in the holy Temple of my body, they can do that. But right now, all my winds and channels are knotted up, in bad shape. And I’m always rushing up into my head, pushing to get somewhere.

What’s so strange and awful about it is that I’m not going anywhere. I’m chasing after hallucinations.

There’s a panicky sort of hurried feeling mixed with the horror of realizing that this is how I have lived my whole life—

It really is like Kadam Lucy said, either today or yesterday. “We have to look at this predicament.” In her opinion, she said that renunciation was the main meditation we should do every day. Just a strong desire to get out.

Holy fuck, I have it, the passionate desire for definite emergence, but I also see how intensely obstructed, habitual my mind is.

Meditate on bliss, keep following the path, remember every moment I possibly can, emptiness, just relax and release, relax and release. I’m rushing constantly. Even as I write this I’m in a frantic hurry because I need to go meet my sponsee but I want to get as much of this down before I do—

Belly tense, words scattering out of my mouth—

I’ve been in a hurry since the day I was born, since before I was born.

One thing:

When I saw through the blissblessings how obstructed I am by my ignorance, the level of holding, clutching, pushing that exists in my body—all these programs that are so unbelievably automatic and habitual that I literally am never free from them—the intense yearning to be the writer of Madwoman on a Rainbow in this world greatly subsided!

Of course it’s my dream; of course I will be that. I want to be that. But nothing compares to how important it is to get out of this situation. It is truly all just illusions, and almost nobody is happy, and everybody is suffering so intensely.

I sometimes feel sad that probably almost nobody will see my book or really see it, but even that is pervaded with self-grasping, me me me, my own peculiar endless deep pervasive suffering, the suffering of a writer in an abstract world where we’re all hurrying to nowhere, disconnected, in the illusion of separation.

The suffering a writer who has spent her life obsessively climbing a mountain that appears from the mists of her mind, and ceaselessly vanishes before she can ever reach its peak.

Samsara.