This is how I imagine consciousness. There is a “self”, but it’s a force that attracts and captures stories – narratives. What others mostly perceive as us, and which our ego reinforces – is actually (I think) a bundle, a quiver of stories.
Why then is death an illusion? Because our “ego” doesn’t really exist anyway. The ego dies, but what is it in the first place; a phantasm that acquires a will to continue.
What we think of as “life”, that of our ego – doesn’t exist. Neither then does death. What of the rest, the real stuff. Well the stories – the ideas weaving together – persist. As for the force that attracts – well that’s a mystery beyond this bodies imagining. I don’t believe it dies though. I think – like the Hindus – that it is a droplet of existence that returns to the ocean.
And there, dear Heart, is a joyous thought. This life is lonely. We are boundaried. If at our body’s dissolution, as ego fades – so then evaporates our boundary. To the loving infinite. To each other. Then: Bring it on. Comrades. Sisters. Namaste.