Thoughts about last thoughts on the edge of a cliff of thoughts.
Imagine the fall into pure unconsciousness, the not conscious.
Are there reasons for being happy or unhappy there, where Wallace Stevens’s birds sing in palms at the end of all thought without human meaning?
The end of the mind, the end of all thought, like a foreign song devoid of human feeling. You know then that there is no difference at this juncture of gold-feathered and fire-fangled feathers.
What arises beyond the last thought also arises without human feeling. But not without any feeling or meaning, only with that of mere being.
On The Invisible “Of Mere Being”
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