“However astute or compassionate the observations of the mind, they are at a necessary distance, at a discerning remove, from life itself. When you feel yourself be, because you are laughing with a friend, or feeling really sick, or engaged with a little child who’s telling you a story, or you’re running full tilt, or sitting in the sun, or painting a wall, or digging in the earth, or singing a song that is breaking your heart — when you are, in short, really alive, feeling that you are here, this moment, having this very experience, this form that life is taking right now — that is reality, your reality, all you have (or ever will have) of life itself. Whatever else there is — all the rest of it, every scrap of remembered or anticipated life — is of a different order of things. It does not exist except when you think it into being. However much pleasure it may bring, or however much worry it has the power to generate, it remains the case that it has no independent existence outside the mind.
You (as you are used to thinking of yourself) do not exist except when you think yourself into being.”