The belief that you are some sort of thing, a body or a psyche, say, garnering the satisfactions of that kind of being as a substance, or squandering it in the name of a different, wilder substance, is an oddly free-floating thing, a belief without a believer, or that only dreams up its own believer out of the same dream, this can't be done away with through any kind of investigation or reason. By its nature it can only be exhausted, until you lose patience with the indulgence, with the effort of keeping it afloat. It is no romance, none of it makes any sense, but here you are nevertheless in the midst of conditions, burning fast or slow, burning up.