I don’t believe in impossibilities anymore. There is nothing that can’t be done.
I could jump high enough to hit a plane. I could be hit by an eighteen-wheeler and survive. I could lose everything I love and have nothing to gain or, better yet, gain everything the semiconducting vine of vanity and greed that lives in my mind desires and still have nothing to lose. My pain is just a twist in the storyline, my pleasure just another piece of the plot, and I am just a thespian, indifferent to my fortune, amused by my fate, as if the whole play is merely a game, and every line was scripted, sometimes absorbing, sometimes arcane.
I would put a gun to my head and flip a coin, just for the thrill that adds drama to the scene. I would turn onto the highway and close my eyes, floor the gas pedal and go the wrong way down I-95, and not be in the least bit suicidal. I’m not afraid to live and not afraid to die. There’s nothing tying me here, to this place full of people convinced of what they know, where they are, where they’re going. They can’t even define reality, yet they feign to tell me where I come from, what I’m made of, who I am, what this world means to us all. They seem to have everything planned, yet the man most confident, wealthy, possessed by his large share in what he thinks to be valuable parts of this world, not the other way around, goes to walk across the street and gets killed. His fifty-year plans are cut short and as his body slowly ceases to function, his dying thought is a question asked with panic to himself about what fate had in store, and he realizes he no longer knows where he will wake up in thirty seconds when the blood drains out of the cuts in his head and the gash in his chest.
This is practical nirvana. Siddhartha had no idea. To destroy your desires, to mute them, is nothing. To have them, to feel longing and wonder and pain, yet consider them nothing, useless distractions, a game, to consider all life to be a singular mission, and death to be gain? I have reached the place Gautama thought he had, and my whitewashed soul knows without doubt that it didn’t take any reincarnations.
I am a fragment of hell, injected with a living shard of heaven.
I am a sliver of heaven, covered by a dusty cloud of hell.
Created: Aug 13, 2010Document Media