Mandala of entanglement (in dualities). The ego expects nothing. It is enough for it to manifest itself - passing the ego, you can clearly see the Andromeda Galaxy spinning under the little finger of the left hand.

Self-portrait entangled. The last living man in the Universe - Victor, kills the penultimate living man - Susanna. The final solution - the initiation of the process of disappearance of dualisms. Dualisms generating resistance obscure the alternative - free flow. Entanglement is a derivative of dualisms. Mathematics appears as a miraculous, transcendent code of the conscious mind. Entanglement dissolves into absolute Emptiness. If you already want it, try to do it right.

Self-portrait with ego still present in the back of the head. Emotions come and go. After persistent attentiveness, all thoughts left, like fetal waters. I thought I was already dying. It turned out to be just a worse feeling.

Self-portrait 4/7 - suffering doesn't add up. Just four beers extinguish mindfulness for seven days, exposing a monstrously oversized ego. The ego counts on understanding to alter its consciousness. It doesn't know that the rudimentary components of reality are allogical. Just as the deep levels of the mind are allogical. At Auschwitz-Birkenau, people murdered several million of themselves. It doesn't matter whether one person or millions perish - the ego notes that suffering doesn't add up. It remembers once reading Nalkowska's Medallions. Now Recall, Updike's Rabbit.

Self-portrait 3/1000 - mind like a mirror. For three days I broke into a thousand pieces. The last one shattered into Śunjata. I saw that I don't have and never had a Self of my own. The sense of Self is just a strong, persistent itch. I am a labile moment-to-moment creation of myself. I become what I happen to experience. Right now I am the picture I am painting. In a moment, I will go out into the street and I will be sculpted by the Saturday-night crowd on Piotrkowska Street.

Self-portrait of three hours and fifty-seven minutes. 18:30 entanglement, 18:40 still entangled, 18:50 entanglement seems to let go, 18:55 I become transparent, 19:03 first up and down flows of energy. Ten minutes later, tensions weaken, momentum slows down. Consciousness is ready to die. Dying begins at 7:17 p.m. Along with it, morality dies down, a despotic whore. Thoughts are dying. Truth and honesty breathe away. Respect for others pits empathy against scattered views and beliefs, soaring a moment ago. My life is worth as much as a kilo of potatoes. And my self-awareness as much as a kilo of beets. Or even less. So I let it rot - it falls apart at 7:33 p.m. Five minutes later it dies dying. Until 22:27.

Self-portrait with a pediatrician. From the perspective of an exoplanet in the Andromeda Galaxy - logic is only one way of manifestation. There are also those where there is no horizon beyond the horizon. Because women are right - men are somehow abnormal. They deserve only two words in drag or a lollipop. And all tied up with strings. When his hand is no longer his, and his calf is just two pounds of meat with a bone. There is no objective need for life to mean something more. Something, like anal intercourse with his pediatrician.

Self-portrait with violin. Still in the vapor of reductionism, but already a bit holistic. Schrodinger - the complexity of matter exceeds the capacity of human imagination. And the ego still his - who am I? It is, it seems, through its body and mind that the Universe experiences its existence. There is nothing disturbing about killing each other. Its contempt for others is good, and so is its hatred - it's good too. Ego doesn't give a damn about the whole ecology thing - apparently that's the way it's supposed to be when lead and benzopyrenes ripple through your veins. Ego remembers how his jaw dropped at a Shlomo Mintz concert at the Lodz Philharmonic. It was wonderfully immortal - that's how Ego matures to death. He also remembers the frenetic music of eighteen-year-old Bartholomew Niziol. It is present all the time near the third synapse, in the eight hundred sixteenth row of the three hundred thousand five hundred sixty-eighth layer of the subconscious. The ego, the Great Mute, is maturing for its final release, although it is still unaware of the structure of reality in which it has come to form itself.

Self-portrait with hymns. Clouds flow on water - death for a matrix flows in the veins. The value of life is measurable, it's twelve fifty for a kilo of meat on the bone or two centimeters - as much as the width of a blade. And the clouds flow on the water like music - a hymn. And another hymn. Like a hundred and ninety-six hymns. Each death is in its place and as it should be.

Self-portrait insatiable - sand, at the bottom of the Sulejowski Lagoon or in a litter box. Dualism and, as usual, comical anthropocentrism. Bad in the left hemisphere of the brain, good in the right kidney. And hatred bursting in the heart, contracted in the region of the colon's adnexa. And all together, inseparable. Still not enough. Not hunger - insatiability.

Self-portrait with a box. His consciousness is like an empty box. Through the holes in the right and left walls, he experiences sounds. Through the opening in the front smells and images, at the back the ego and the talking mind, through the opening at the top the Self and the subconscious, and from the bottom emotions and body sensations. And that's it. He is what reaches him, what he happens to experience. Inside he observes nothing more, inside there is nothing. What a surprise! A void from which legs and arms protrude.

A structural self-portrait, in the shape of forgiveness. There are no quarks or gluons in consciousness. Only two parallel highways. A woman's voice in my head - yes, forgiveness is an absolute. My self-awareness is white. Ego is gray, dark gray. The subconscious is black and takes up relatively little space. The ego is golden, pulsatingly jittery, like the surface of the Sulejow Reservoir. As Murray used to say Gell-Mann, sensory deprivation is rape; a nail clipper is simpler.

Self-portrait with a parasite. Consciousness, since it was violated, gave birth to anxiety states Of varying intensity. She throws it every day whenever she takes an ego dump. The concentration of its metabolites in the urine is still trace. He will never die, because He never existed. An illusion existed. And emptiness. I know that he was injected into his brain with oxytocin with adrenaline. Something like Escitalopram two times ten milligrams of Cognac Croizet from one thousand nine hundred and ninety-seven. He was already dead. He has always been. Nietzsche: "Progeniture is an obstacle to the absolute, just like your women." His ego claims that women are OK. Like the TV commercial - women and progenitura - toxic relationships in your brain.

His hatred - a self-portrait. It will not be empathetic or humble. His hatred is great. His hatred is always ready. Ready to be released. He loves his hatred. Polish hatred is next to her a dwarf with a small and crooked penis complex. He is like Lisa Gerrard's voice, escorting to the edge, all the way there. Like all his neighbors when he came into contact with their feral humanism. A seedy anthropocentrism. When he is no longer entertained by his hatred, then a handful of Hydroxyzine plus Xanax six milligrams. And a suppository for relaxation.

Self-portrait with strawberries - insight on a bench. Gradually it becomes transparent. So and the ego quiets. Paris Commune Square. The algorithms engraved in the subconscious are weakening. Every cell of the body screams - die! Then his body disappears. What is outside thickens, grows, becomes the only consciousness available. Nothing is what it seems. Nothing is what it seems. The bench opposite is not a white wooden object to sit on. It is just a bench. A blandness, without any qualities. A runaway yorkshire terrier is not a dog, it is just a yorkshire terrier. Strawberries on a stall are just strawberries. Algorithms recur in a moment of inattention. Resistance is compulsive in nature. And a tart taste.

Self-portrait and flows. Everything comes and goes. An uninterrupted flow. Up and down. Emotion comes and goes. So does thought. My foot comes and goes. My foot is not my foot, it is just a foot. So is the liver and the heart and the anus. Consciousness comes and goes. And hatred. Hatred is not mine, it is only hatred. The ego notes that it is easier to die when one hates.

Self-portrait "everything changes". There is nothing with which to prop up the ego for any length of time. Ego becomes insistent and unbearable. It disintegrates and builds anew. It disintegrates into a thousand little things, and builds from nine hundred and ninety-nine. It is as real as its absence. The mind falls into the "everything has already been" - A roll of the dice. A few beers to sober up. Something for the head. For the fingers of the back hand. And everything is still just resistance, resistance, resistance.

Struggling with ego - self-portrait . Hatred comes and goes, regardless of whether it is currently needed. So I move the ego to the stomach area, or to the heel of my right leg. It resists, resists and resists.

Self-portrait of the deprived of social roles. Pushing away progeniture is freedom. My ego no longer wants to be a father. So I move it to the stomach area or to the heel of my right leg. Ego loves cognitive systems, especially those aimed at removing it. It often acts like a herring. A herring on an empty stomach or a herring in a stomach full of alcohol. After the release of "Nausea," Jean-Paul Sartre: my ego is no longer a father.

Shunyata's reality is devoid of meaning. He knew this, and because of this he was often tired of feeling good. It was similar there, when Robbe-Grillet took a shot at Butor out of jealousy over Sarraute. Yes, that's how he wanted it, he wanted it to last. At the edge of his left hemisphere, his excited mind produced cascades of emotions he could no longer keep up with naming. But it was the ego that continued to pull the strings.

Self-portrait - the elementary molecule of the System. He had exactly the same as a pig and a cockroach. The head was empty, there was no consciousness in the head. The abdominal cavity was also empty. Where the lungs were air flowed freely. There was nothing in the area of the heart. There was nothing at the exit where the liver and spleen were. The ego was transferred to the index finger of the right hand. Identification with Polishness - to the thumb of the left hand. Identification with Homo sapiens - to the area of the penis, or two meters in front of it. He could manipulate it at will. So he poured blood urine over it. Hatred of the System energized his every cell, its every lepton, quark and Higgs particle. He was built on hatred of the System.

Ubiquitous resistance, or ego self-portrait. Ego notes that the human self shaped to live in solitude cannot function without emotional attachment. Ego thinks deeply about this. Its cells will soon undergo a great energetic disintegration. But for now, the ego obsessively builds its span on every form of resistance. It is all built of resistance. In a tachycardia of mental muscles.

Self-portrait with the self. Introspection after one hundred thousand and two hundred and forty three failed attempts to localise the self. I got it. I have been looking for it in lungs, stomach and the head. In the phalanx of the ring finger of the right hand and in the third lumbar vertebrae of the spine. I could not see it, although all this time it stood ten centimetres in front of me and looked me straight in the eye. As I was looking for it, it was looking for itself. As I waited for it to appear, it waited patiently. Now I moved it carefully somewhere close to C1 and C2 of cervical vertebrae of the spine. Bearing in mind that the concrete humanism, schizoid anthropocentrism and teary patriotism soiled with blood do exist. Anger and hatred are of particular value for the ego. Every day they create a soaring structure leading towards the absolute – inside me. The ego has already experienced what is the self. It is the One who Is. The ego accepted the fact that it is only the One Who Appears. Introspection was a great surprise for the disillusioned ego – it realised that enlightenment can be wearisome.

Self-portrait in the sand. Ego identifies less and less with the surrounding reality. It is like a woman immersed in a pheromonal-hormonal bath. Insight after a rough ride at the Sulejow Reservoir - the ego is sand flooded by the waves. To exist is to resist. Ego already recognizes its nature. And then comes to me my dog, which I don't have. The ego soiled in the mud of blood. Ego stained with identification. I am the sand. I can decide who I want to be. I choose to be sand. An overdose of alcohol defers the issue.

Self-portrait with marked revenge - rage and hatred - and revenge bringing relief. My ego is cynical, cold and ruthless. And vengeful. Revenge brings relief. Not Shakespearean vengeance just ordinary, everyday vindictiveness. I've placed her in the lower left three (highlighted in red), where she is very comfortable. For manipulation and emotional blackmail, which give me satisfaction, the finger of the right hand (marked in red) turned out to be the best. Now you can see exactly - a complete and comprehensive answer is contained in the Śunjata. The answer is not the Śunjata. The answer is contained in the Śunjata.

Man is not the purpose of the existence of the Universe - self-portrait.

 

Self-portrait with a dog. The Milky Way is a medium-sized galaxy among three hundred billion galaxies. The sun is a small star among the three hundred billion stars of the Milky Way. There is no law in the Universe that forbids killing dogs. There is no law in the Universe that forbids the deprivation of human life. In Shunyata, life is worth nothing. It is experiencing the ultimate well-being of non-existence.

Wind in the chest - a self-portrait. After a few days of attentiveness, the ego experienced that consciousness is a screen on which messages from the subconscious are projected. This is a great illusion. A brilliant illusion - the conscious inner self is not more than nothing. Emptiness gives no satisfaction.