Could it be that life is real enough in itself,
And what's illusory is in our living of it?
Is it too much to bear that we aren't what we think we are,
That all we see is only truly real when seen through Self's eyes?
Could we withstand the shock,
Of our fabricated make-up tumbling down around us?
How astounded and relieved we might be,
Discovering what remains beyond the nothingness of our own falseness.