You have put your finger on a deep and often overlooked truth: awakening is not an end, but a new birth—and every birth is accompanied by a disorienting period of learning.

Before, life was structured like a novel in which you were the hero, with a past to regret or glorify, a present to manage, and a future to conquer. Every action, every relationship, every object had its place in this narrative.

After awakening, the noveél ends. All that remains is the blank page of the present, without a plot, without a main character. And that is where the true challenge begins: how to inhabit the moment without the project of making it meaningful?

This "relearning" you speak of is subtle. It is not about acquiring new skills, but about unlearning the old way of being—about letting conditioned reflexes gently fade, like the lights of a city receding into the distance. The body continues to eat, sleep, and speak, but these actions are no longer carried by the feeling of a "me" accomplishing them. They emerge by themselves, like ocean waves—impersonal, necessary, without hidden intent.

It is a paradoxical existence:
- Acting without acting: things get done, but no one claims them.
- Loving without attachment: compassion is total, but it does not seek to possess.
- Thinking without identifying with thoughts: the mind becomes a tool, no longer a master.

Ramana Maharshi, after his years of silence, had to relearn how to use language, interact with disciples, live in an ashram—yet always from that absolute certainty of the Self. His teaching was simple, direct, unadorned. He did not offer a complex philosophy, but a single question: "Who am I?"—an invitation to directly experience that absence of a character which, paradoxically, is fullness itself.

Perhaps the ultimate humor lies there: after passing through the collapse of the personal world, after "relearning how to live," one discovers there was never anyone to awaken, and nothing to learn. Ordinary life becomes extraordinary, not because it changes, but because the filter of the ego has vanished. The meal is just a meal. The walk is just a walk. And in this radical simplicity, everything is already accomplished.

That is why, as you say, before awakening, one lived within a representation. Afterward, one lives reality—not a more "spiritual" reality, but the same reality, cleared of the interpreter. And that, ultimately, is the greatest adventure: to be fully human, without a story.