People don't matter. They're not really here. Their reality is dependent on the value we subjectively give them. All existence is symbolic, illusion.
The emphasis that people place on their existence, calling it life, apportioning it such great importance, that's their subjective reality. This that surrounds us is the consistency of their lives. Their existence is all that they know. But the existence that each of us knows is just a speck of what makes up the Real.
Each and every thing that we think or say is testament of what we don't know, of our ignorance. Because with each and every thing that we say, an infinity is unsaid. Every word of expression stands in stark contrast of what is not expressed. With every consideration there is a world not considered. Yet with each and every thing we say, express, or consider, we think we are making some mark, are of some significance. Our physical existences are scratch marks on desert sands.
It's the divine male and female. What gets said is the tiny male, what is unsaid is the huge female. The known, visible male, the elusive, intangible female. The insignificant, material human male. The Real, unknowable, divine female.
