Free Write #4

Lonely Tree

Cough, cough hack, hack; who needs to breathe anyway? The rain falls down in the breezeless October morning, drab, gray, smoky in its texture, the taste of acrid volcanic sulfur.

Talking about processes, process, processes. Essence is Process. Self, other, love, hate, life death, all appearings of the Process. Ah, the joys of philosophy that is gleamed from experience and that also informs it. The interactions of expectation disappointment, and hope, and madness. Sully not the name of the philosopher for they have made everything we know. 

Pause to take a drag. a black and white cat sits perched in the window sill watching the drops plummet toward the ground, curious, inquisitive, never pausing to reflect, perpetually nowness. Another plays with a toy, a jingle ball, fun, entertainment, so similar are we. So many jingles and baubles I enjoy.

Do they weigh me down? They definitely can. It's been a life's work untying myself from lead weights. Sinking, sinking, I will not! God damn it! I will not sink! To float and swim and glide and soar, that is the desire. To sink? Fuck no! Fuck that! Shove it up your ass! But maybe, just maybe sinking is "where it's at?" The ultimate insight, the profound unraveling. To let go and sink down, down, down into the depths of mind and reality. Fear. Such fear of losing these harmful habits that I've collected. "I am" is a habit, a collection of habits bundled and labeled, copyrighted under my name. Default settings. 

Anon wakes and gets coffee, his negative presence immediately filling the room, his aggressive motions, and sounds, an utter lack of delicacy and finesse. Such sorrow I have for him. Waking and always complaining, ah the urge to leave here is strong but the obstacles nearly insurmountable. Dozens and dozens of job applications but no call backs. His constant nagging secretly driving me mad, but that's down, down, down. Deep down there in the drowning zone. He's unaware that my constant hypochondria, the constant feeling that I am dying, makes all his complaints hollow to these ears. Someday he and I will have an earnest discussion. I love him dearly for all that he's done, and I feel his sorrow, but someday I will let my secret world be known. 

In that world, he is both a character of love and scorn. He is samsara, the Anti-Buddha. He is another reason for me to let go, to sink, to understand. I think it's a lie, that practice is solely practical, that we can carry on as we always have. It doesn't feel that way to me. 

It feels that if I dive in, I will transform; I won't be able to carry on as I currently do. That's what both charms me and scares the shit out of me at the same time. Because I want to change, to transform into the Path - but at the same time, I want to continue on this road of self-destruction.