The mind's field of vision is limited to a sector which we call the outward. As much as you seek to bend it around there remains a complement that can only be inferred. Oddly, this dark side seems infinitely closer in to you that the part you seem to know, or is that just a fact about how you conceive of your self? - with difficulty if at all, and why, indeed, should you have any conception of yourself, plenty seem to get along fine without one. The world, the sum total of events, is posed in the outward, it is the place of the question and the questioner, but it is insufficient for their veritable bulk. If some significance is there it is projected onto a film and that film floats in a layered series of such films, each an impoverished image or map of reality, variants with nothing to unify them, they already include all maps. We know we are experiencing a sort of debased fiction in place of an unbearable and inconceivable communication with the real. And thus life proves boring, the bubble intact in spite of all attempts to break out, or to stretch it to the span of full presence. This is not a failure of will but the very nature of outer worlds, of all outer worlds. And the only remedy you can think of is to leave your room and go in search of a new stimulus. If the reality is keen enough, if it crosses a threshold, then you are excited to find yourself there, and it almost seems that the great sleeping whale of the self has opened an eye and raised itself up for a moment. But then at other times such as this one it seems to have vanished completely and you don't know how to bring it back or if it ever will come back of its own accord. This is not the opposite of anything, is not the pole of a dialectic, because opposites coincide, the absence of the self would be its presence. You cannot fulfil your love for the world because you have no self equal to it, and such a self can only be found by losing yourself utterly in this love.