28 Feb 2021
Death - The everlasting song of time, the youth of every manifesting moment.
What the truth demands is not an answer to the complexity of what is being asked, not the beautification of what falls into the hands like water so as to slip through the fingers, not the assertion of what the words weave, not the gratification of opinions, mere agreements and disagreements, nor the celebration of all the rigid prejudices, judgements and conclusions, not the rivers of hopes, not the abyss of hopelessness, not the sweetness of accomplishments, nor the cries of despairs and disappointments, nor this unending thirst of reaching somewhere, of being someone. Would you look at the simplicity of what lies right in front of you, that looks you into the eyes. Would you listen to its freshness? Would you? But then what are you? Who are you? What are you other than all the recollections, other than the stacked up images, piles of stories and dramas, songs of unending disputes and confusions and desires, of happinesses and despairs, unending pursuits of pleasures, a deep rooted pain, silly comparisons nourished by the vast insecurities, some brief moments of joys. These accumulations that give you the sense of self, that you are so scared of losing. What are you other than an idea, a pile of projections of all the old memories that you have accumulated, an idea that has nothing to offer other than the avoidance of what awaits, a reality most real than anything whatsoever, that encompases each moment. Now again, is this death something that you shall meet somewhere in the mere future. Wouldn’t that be yet another idea. But would you see that every idea is you, even this idea of what you call death. Do you see actually! Why don’t you see it! Why don’t you see the simplicity of how life gives and how death steals each moment. Is there anything that you ever own? Why would you hold on to anything, to anyone? Now, how very easy is it to accept it, or to reject it, but would you actually see it? This unadorned reality, the truth that whatever is known to you has to end, every small detail, everything and everyone you have ever known, all that you seem to cling to is so ephemeral, is incapable of staying with you. Would you see that simple truth, would you hold on to it. Would you die before the death actually confronts you? Would you be nothing? Would you be no one? Would you? But then what could be said of this nothingness! Can anything be known of it? Is there any description to it? Is there anything that would manifest in there. All that one can witness is its absolute freedom. Freedom that is boundless, independent of all. Then, maybe a doorway to what they say of that horizon where a drop meets the ocean, where ephemeral meets the eternal, limited meets the unlimited, form meets the formless, named meets the nameless, maybe this is where the known actually encounters the unknown. But once again, these are just words, mere ideas, just another projection of the mind, easy to accept or to reject. Would you die to all ideas and wipe away the hopes and the expectations that sprout out of them, like a deep dive into the ocean that knows no bounds, a deep subtle whisper that shakes every fibre of one's being, like that old musical instrument producing unending melodies, such a musk whose fragrance would lead home even the blindest from the darkest pits. Who knows what more...
