Even This Must Go

When fullness becomes the last thing you cling to

Fullness can come like a flood.

At some point on the path, everything cracks open. The colors become more vivid. The air touches the skin in a way it never did before. Sounds pierce straight through you, not as noise but as life itself. The mind slows down, or disappears for stretches, and what is left feels obvious. Alive. Undeniable.

There’s often a natural reverence in that. A soft awe. A quiet joy.

But it can also become something else.

Something grabs hold. Maybe not the usual grasping. Not reaching for success or love or security. But something subtler. A clinging to the beauty itself. A desire to keep it. To claim it. To prove it.

It doesn’t always feel like grasping. It can feel like celebration. Like sharing. Like wanting to shout from the rooftops that life is sacred. That this is it. That everything is full.

And maybe it is. But the question that often doesn’t get asked is: what is fueling that movement?

Because fullness doesn't need defense. It doesn't need confirmation. It doesn’t care if others see it. It doesn’t even care if you do.

But the mind does. The mind that just let go of one set of stories often turns around and builds a new one from the ashes. Now it’s not about becoming someone, it’s about having arrived. Now the identity isn’t the struggling seeker, it’s the one who sees.

And there’s nothing wrong with that either. It’s part of it. But if you look closely, you’ll start to feel the weight of it. The tension. The effort it takes to keep affirming that this is it. That it’s full. That it’s sacred.

Because sometimes, that insistence is pushing against something.

Against emptiness.

Against the terrifying possibility that none of it means anything. That all the stories. Even the beautiful ones—were never pointing to anything solid. That even the deepest recognition is just a moment passing through. That even this fullness is empty.

Not in a depressing way. But in a way that refuses to land anywhere. There’s a kind of death in that. Not a loss of aliveness, but a loss of any ground to stand on.

No more positions to take. Not even the position of presence, or love, or even truth.

And that’s where most people stop. That’s where the mind starts grabbing again.

Better to call it sacred. To say it’s all God. Better to wrap it in warmth than face the possibility that there’s nothing left to hold.

But that’s the price.

At some point, even the glow stops meaning anything. The sacredness loses its grip. The sense of knowing becomes just another sensation that comes and goes.

And what’s left isn’t some deeper truth waiting to be uncovered.

It’s not full. It’s not empty. It’s not anything.

It doesn’t offer you something. It doesn’t confirm or deny.

It doesn’t move to give you anything to hold on to.

And that’s it.

If you didn’t need to keep anything, not even beauty, not even truth, what would be left?