The experiencer and experience and experiencing are indistinguishable formations which are constantly changing, coming and going like clouds in the sky. And like clouds you can never catch the exact moment in which they arise or dissolve away, and if you go up into them to get a closer look you don't find anything but whirls of mist with no shape, a chill, a buffeting and a wetness. And still they, or rather whatever it is that lies behind their appearing, mysteriously gathers huge reservoirs of electric tension which from time to time discharge in jagged veins of light and fire. Nothing but these alternations of weather, of atmosphere and currents, blue skies, red skies, rain and dusty winds, the metaphor could not be more clear, yet how passively you accepted each one in turn as the central adventure, as the measure of your life and ran it down into night and oblivion, despair and glad recurrence. You called it your mind and drew a line to distinguish its chattering swirls of thought from the surrounding chaos, without seeing that the you, the mind, the chaos, the love, the hate, the clouds, the wind, thunder, the sun, the moon and other stars are one continuous substance, one continuous illusion befalling.