We are so sure of what we see that with this sense of certainty a great deal is hidden. The strange thing is that the faulty piano would never know it is lacking until it heard the sound of a tuned one. So it is with us, for we have no reference to a frame of mind other than the one we are endowed. If this idea be digested somewhat, it ought to be unsettling and unnerving. The more it causes you to be uncomfortable with yourself, the greater you have digested it. For it is these types of realizations of oneself which lead to truly putting the sword down in the comings and goings of our life and allow ourselves to fall and surrender to a way of being which is sincere and honest.
The idea about consciousness is that with its heightening comes suffering, for when the light in the room is lit and the creature sees itself with clarity, then the warts and blemishes are made visible. This must by law cause suffering in the eye of the beholder. It is only desirable for those who seek out that bitter medicine which promises to bring them closer to the reality of who and what they are. Should they not wish that type of experience, then they reject what has by nature to accompany the eventual benefits of being able to see, feel, and do more in this world. The instrument must be able to see itself for what it is, with the belly hanging out and the pimples in plain sight, before it can hope to tune itself to the melody of harmony.
As of now, we do not really exist as individuals but rather programmed personalities with the cues and repertoire of stringed marionettes. We do not exist, so what we are is whatever we are stringed to. The object is where the power resides in our relationship to every single thing this world has to offer. We find small respites in the humble sights of nature and yet this exception is often overwhelmed quite enormously by the roles we play in the dramas of urban life. The period of one-third of our time here, apportioned to walking and talking through the maze of substandard Shakespearian dramas, defines us as the ones who failed to seek out the truth of what they are. And for the sake of what? Avoidance of the truth of what makes us tick from sunrise to sunset.
An instrument must of its own accord yearn for its tune to be set right. It has to accept that willingly and suffer accordingly until the chords are strung properly and the integrity of the object is — pardon the pun — sound. This is the riddle that solves the situation and allows a man to be a creature endowed with power of his own right. Power that is no longer strung up to blind desires and deaf pleasures but to a purity of purpose that makes our life worth living. If a man walk down the street and is undeterred by the distractions which come his way, with a resolve which is dogged and unrelenting, then he is a sound instrument of song. For the stringed web of distractions is what separates the puppets from the men.