Yesterday, my uncle died. I'm struggling for something to say that has not been covered a million times, about death, about the experience... that is not clichéd and platitudinous and glib... I can't think of anything. I am mired in suffering and the constant challenge of being; I want a break, forever, from this tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury.. signifying nothing. What is it that cries, and yearns and burns? The ego, the ego, the ego... let go, let go, let go... collapse, surrender, go within... how does one do that, in London, right now? Does one shun all social life, become a hermit? Should I travel to India, seek solace, lose myself? It's the physical thing that gets me most you see. And the anger that comes with it. Why me?
And yet reality keeps breaking through. The sound of water hitting the enamel bathtub in the shower. The cool calm of autumn sunlight on still-green leaves. The whole terrible, still, beyond reckoning, sense of being. It's here and now. Always.. underneath, beyond, behind... vast.. being.
The seductive reality of the surface, that I find myself always drawn to, the rush and chatter of human daily trivia, promises solace, delivers it, temporarily. Temporarily.
Thank god one can express one's self. I feel better now.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment