He is a Master – yet at the same time he is that by the most extreme token of opposites – he is a slave.
He is not our slave, or anyone's slave, or any thing's slave. He is the slave of It, of this very reality we want to know and experience.
He has subjugated his 'I' and he has enthroned the 'He', what the Arabs call the pronoun of absence. Constantly he addresses reality, his reality, as 'He'. He is a presence addressing an absence, and yet we experience him inwardly as an absence expressing a Presence. He is the perfection of slavery. He is bound, utterly constrained, without choice, helpless, obedient. He does what he has been commanded to do.
He bows and he prostrates before this Reality, he calls on its name morning and night, he asks and he asks – but never for this or that, never for forms. He asks for this no-thing, this effulgent nothingness that has produced the myriad forms, he asks It for It and gets whatever 'It' he supplicates for, so we always see him satisfied and content. He may be ill and in pain, he may be penniless, but he is content, he is well-pleased, for it seems that this flow of 'It' never ceases through all these apparently negative events.
By slavery I mean being stripped of every power and strength and capacity and even the act of getting things for yourself.