I am like a palace under construction that is opening its eyes, becoming gradually conscious... and is astounded and awed at once to observe at what's going on: The massive work at hand, the design, the beauty, the gestalt of the whole process of construction overwhelms my awakening consciousness. Here I see a beautiful window, and I am captured by the beauty of what I am looking like and at. There I see a loose pile of bricks, and am horrified at what seems to be a disorderly incompletion.
My being swerves between a love and fear of myself - and by extension, for the Architect. I have moments of absolute certainty about my beauty, and instances of utter doubts of the project.
The benevolence of the Universe that was so clearly visible to me had suddenly hidden, leaving my heart with an inexplicable feeling of contraction. I was wondering what happened? What wrong have I done - for, thanks to my culture, I indulge in the self blame-game more often than I'd like?
Then occurred to me a new analogy, a word: Nebulous.
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