Hello friends. It’s been awhile.
Lately I’ve been (as usual) entertaining a world without a self – a world where there are no more I’s uttered, no more references. No more past and history.
In addition so the last weeks have been struck by the transience of existence. And that, though one could pass it by in a coffee conversation after a preliminary meeting with the Sutras, desire leads nowhere.
The folly of desire and wishing for its demise in an Ouroboros irony left this website and these conversations all teetering between a vow of silence or a limp of words for the rest of days.
Sometimes it feels as though a million things happen within a week, to where it’s surprising how it’s the same month. There’s almost an insanity attached to updating this cornerside pamphlet though there’s no platform and surely no campaign shall sway the less inclined – not that there’s anything to sway them toward.
There is one point to concede, and it’s this always sneaking perplexion after enough silence.
More often than not, even if language can write you to purgatory, so it still writes your days inevitably.
And so when the writing stops, the story does too. Looking over the projects or aspirations left leaves a dejection at best, and a despair at worst. This is in stark contrast to two weeks prior: a perfidy perhaps, but nevertheless.
It’s strange, surely, especially when, in a chance day, so the essence of “desire is suffering” pressed itself against the inanities of anxiety browsing in a gunshot restly toward a bunch of nothing-somethings. That the something instead shall be nothing; that words shall no longer need any sense about them.
When you strip away all identity and desires, what do you think you are left with? Can you recognize its form? Isn’t life tightly woven with an ambition to live hardwired and beating brightly?
Whether you grasp the fullness of the statement or not, you’re still here. The question becomes no longer about what you desire, but rather what you’ll be. What you are.
In this sense, there’s no denying these strings of posts and nonsense taking a private chunk of time for an undisclosed amount of times, evenings, mornings on occasion.
See, writing here is writing things into existence. When the writing stops, so does everything else.
And as long as one can stave away any trailing desires, stave away any delusions of anything more than a storyboard to keep this play-of-one alive, then we’ll continue into our dying night.