Why do I keep hoping, mistakenly expecting, that things will get better. I have shut my mind to so many things. Could I survive the world without the multicolored lotus of my tormentors? So I ask "What do I contribute?" and the future Buddha answers, "That is the wrong question."
You scrape by, feeding yourself on fat and fumes, hoping you won't have to make your son mourn you. The lack of value we place on immortality is disingenuous. What would you do with that time? Everything.
Time to heal, time to love, time to explore. We are fools to cling to boundaries. We have already given away so much power. Divorced from our agency, and still we build our core hopes on control.
So flimsy is my faith, that when the Lord of Death appeared, and spoke to me his thirst, I shuddered. I was there, obols overflowing, and all I could do was fantasize about helping someone else. Good seeds rumbled in the earth. Perhaps someday I will buy you that coffee, and see my son to the end of the universe.
About the Creator
Stéphane Dreyfus
Melanchoholic.
Struggling to obey the forgotten rules.
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The Great Serrated Batholith
Tumanguya I bow to you. Let me tell you of the awareness your scoured landscapes lay bare for me. The world is not as stable as it once was. The foundations have been shown to be worse than crumbling. They are porous with an ancient rot; the fact that they never existed. The space, the thing, we inhabit is a solitary maze of mirrors, and there have never been any walls. As we stare, mute, into the widening, rocky expanse, we see further into our own souls.
By Stéphane Dreyfus2 years ago in Poets
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