There will come a time when we will have to acknowledge all this spiritual circus, to which we were initially attracted, moved by the gusts of immaturity, is awfully circular.
Around the track, we move in circles.
This show, however dull and sullen, must go on
May we have a heart brave enough to go beyond and say :
Here I am
My wings stuck in shallow fuel oil
Dressed in this black clothes, flipping my bat wings
Am I really different ?
A pelican, gulping down rotten fishes.
Humming along to the monotonous sounds of traditional syllables…
What am I hoping to summon ?
How different am I from other obsessional patterns, wishing to find a square solution to my round problem ?
Isn’t all this exactly the same thing, with the same coldness that we erroneously call zen ?
Here I am now
Alone, no clothes, no chants, no briefcase full of prefab concepts, ready to quench all questions.
Without my speech, without others’ speeches on zen’s posture, aesthetics, on Asian colours, on travellers’ fantasies, on dreams about returning to some roots.
Here I am
I’ve lost everything
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