Really, anyone with a serious mind in this world is the spiritual equivalent of the protagonists of Godot, no matter whether you're eating roots from the field and trying to survive each day on the roadside, or ensconced in a comfortable house or apartment with a well-remunerated daily sequence of obligations. None of us should believe, or even take seriously the things around us. We can't, or we become dishonest and join the dishonest.
One can be in the world without believing in the world. I learned that through long years of working day jobs.
At the end of the day, if you turn right after leaving the office, you go to an apartment to which you have a key. If you turn left, you will have to find something. Life is precisely that turn in the other direction, to a path in which something will have to come up. You will be in that condition before the end, if only at the end. Tolstoy attempted to teach himself this in the end, and died in a village railway station.
In the museum in Cleveland, just across from the famous water lilies, there is a green landscape by Pissarro. Looking closer, or to be precise, looking more precisely (in the manner encouraged by detailed American landscape painting and discouraged by the clouds of Turner), you see a figure asleep on the green hill.
In the last country I was in, the famous 19th c. philosopher had a theory of the spiritual condition of his nation's culture. He saw it as a green hillside by a village, this location bringing out the conditions of life most conducive to beholding the mystery.
Watching a production of Hamlet at the Hungarian theatre in Cluj, I was struck with the thought that the play didn't begin until the skull in Hamlet's hand became Yorick. (Who was based on Richard Tarleton, a character actor with a quick wit, who would dance jigs with inprovised wordplay with the audience after the show.) Until then, we are holding props and speaking lines. All we have is this existence, this natural form, and so much of the present existence is about concealing this from us.
So. Uniting the thoughts. We are on the hillside. It is the only way that reveals who we are, and we are among those who are convinced that the world of most people's preoccupations is false. So we are left in this place, and the one gift it has for us is that last item in Pandora's case, that thing that made the old Russian writer hobble away from his house to parts unknown.
But, finally, in knowledge, we must hold the mystery.