i watch the drifting clouds and my mind synchs to their speed and i wonder whether i'm the cloud or the cloud is me and i know that i'm not moving and yet i feel i am and i know that i'm not weightless and yet i feel i am and i know i can't live aimlessly and yet i feel i can
The question asked: "Am I enough?" Which begs the questions: -enough for whom? -enough for what? What would it mean to not be enough? The Economist in me says no one ever acknowledges when enough is enough. [That's what we are taught as baby Economists: that the fundamental condition of human existence is that people's wants are endless, but resources are limited.] In yoga, we have Santosha & Tapas [contentment & discipline,] which seemed at odds to me for a long time -- until I considered that being happy with who one is is only in conflict with efforts to be a better version of oneself if one makes some pretty f***ed up assumptions. I've been told, on occasion, that I'm "too much." I don't know whether this is better, worse, or morally equivalent to being not enough.
Evergreens line the trail, transporting me to a place -- higher and harder -- where one might expect trees that refuse to yield for seasons.
arches echo ahead, stretching to the end of time left into the labyrinth, right to the blinding sun it's a land of stark contrasts on one side, great adventure but great peril on the other, painful monotony of well-lit spaces then there's straight ahead: a ceaseless repetition of today throughout all your tomorrows
bleached in bright sunshine -- thin, wispy white clouds are barely seen amid the washed out skies some summer day -- sending one running for sunglasses to avoid a blinding headache it seems the world might fade into a tabula rasa, or blanch anemically
pain nails me to The Now there is no pulling away the only escape lies in finding the drift, riding the swells until there is nothing but those sacred undulations
a small town a cluster of buildings, really visible from the train and everyone who passed it must have surely wondered whether it always sat looking as they'd seen it for me, that was under gray & dismal skies my logical mind suggests that the village's situation changes daily but, really, it will never cease to be that hazy hamlet i viewed through running rivulets of rain that day on the train.
Clouds roll over the low hills, enshrouding the vast plantation, crawling down into the valley, filling it like a bowl, until it drifts toward one like horror show death mist, or like the mustard gas that sank into the trenches, once upon a time. But without the threat of death, except for death of that view of rolling acres of tea trees that stretch out to the mountains.
I'm in a special mode of mind. One in which nothing is ahead or behind. Everything is shades of a me that doesn't exist. So, maybe I'm a reflection of all that is -- in as much as there is an "I." I don't know how I slipped into this anti-solipsist stance -- believing everything exists, but I. I'm a figment, but since I can't be a figment of my own imagination, I'm not sure what flavor of figment I might be.
They called him "the Emperor of Pain," the they who didn't know his real name, a name that was comically disjointed to his reputation, a name that was to this man as that gentle lisping voice is to Mike Tyson, and so they gave him that ridiculous name, and he became both more and less than what he really was.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 