I am only I. If I am nothing, I am one with all.
In identifying with ourselves, we necessarily identify not only with our own joy and pleasure, but with our pain, anger, resentments, discontent, and attachments.
When we let go of our ego, our own self loses its sense of focus as the center of our existence, blurring and blending into everything around it, like drawn ink, splashed by a drop of water, loses all sense of division and melts into its neighbor.
The focus on ourselves blurred, ego unplugged, our pain, resentments, and discontent all lose their larger-than-life holographs, shrinking back to what they really are: inked-in doors and walls we drew on ourselves. So well we drew that we believed them to be real and impenetrable and necessary. Yet so easy they smudge and shimmer away, as the Wicked Witch of the West, with hardly a splash of water.