Every seven months, I left to the quiet womb of the earth. That’s what I used to call the hill. It wasn’t that I ever was detracted by the raving madness of human seas. Where one body ended and another started without the sight of a gap. All in all I used to enjoy the play, which humanity had played upon itself. The gaping mouth of madness was upon them and all of this movement. To bear it null and void.
I used to take a slow train to the ends of the earth. The train used to chug along without care. I used to find peace in what most others call an inanimate object. It gave me care till my no-destination was reached. Once there, I would be greeted by no-one. I would take slow steps. These steps were the method by which I made the seeming separation (or no-separation) be realized. Or forgotten depending upon my gentle smile. I would not take much with me for this habitual indulgence every so often. Just perhaps a change of clothes, a pad to write with (though I used to loathe using the skin of a tree to indulge) and perhaps a razor. Maybe to look presentable in almost a non rational colonial method to the seeming crowds of no-ones who would greet me..
The climb would start very close, as close as I chose. It looked unfathomable that an odd old and quite unfit man like me would do a bit of trekking to what most would call an escape or even a vain effort to reassure that self peace still existed, here and now. And perhaps even realizable. Of course this isn’t true. True peace. Well that’s something which is very remote to me. For there is not much true and there is a lot which is peaceful. And the words are quite inter exchangeable along with their meanings.
The time of the year which I chose for such rambling and traveling would inevitably be autumn or early winter. It left the remaining earth in a silence, silence which I had adored when I was younger. Don’t get me wrong, I still do. But realization is something profound. Perspectives drop and silence stills.
Silent tree greets me on silent snow filled paths and peaks. Silent is the river which flows not. Made into ice. Slow is the partaking of this grandeur. I also take my place thus.
There is a single flight which takes place over and over in my head over my entire lifetime. The flight calls to me whispering in hedonistic, sometimes nihilistic tones. ‘fall, oh fall just once go down and see the master. See the master that maketh the rise and the fall’
Not a trace of meaning is present.
At these great heights. I sometimes take a dip. In the ice cold sensation of being nude. Where no one can watch the no one becoming nude. Where silence envelops, grips tight.
The seizure starts as soon as I enter this city of glass. This city of silence. It begins with the shaking. The trembling of the roots. As it all spins without end. Endless circles, endless citadels broken remade only to be broken down. Every which way , this moment, this shaking takes me by surprise. I give into it not easily. ‘I’ will not give up as much as it takes. It will try to move. Try to move into the shadows and take hold like a puppeteer.
Blood gently flows from my nose. Sometimes from my eyes and my belly. It soaks the ice red. It creates somewhat of a stagnant sensation in this aura. A stagnant sensation because it is exactly what this place calls for. The exact thoughts, never different. These roots shake then. Tremble even more.
And as I lie on my back stretched like the dead fetus which I was when I was born. Relief and pain stretch at first very exact and in directions in the inner space. Then they recede. They come back one last time, as I have noticed almost all the time. When this relapse occurs. Then they disappear. They vanish.
I have become a whiff of cloud. I have spent time in the mire. In the moor. In the marsh. In the wallow of wood. Inside the womb of adya.
My body disappears one at a time, the hands become the earth and the feet become the seas. The heart becomes the shadow and the bones become the sorrow; sorrow enveloping humanity. The lips become deceit and the eyes become the thunder in the sky.
One at a time, I become devoid.Both these stretch in another inner space. They are here as real or illusory as the blood soaked which gold I lay on.
Trapped in bodies. Freedom in the mind. Redemption of souls. Such drills in the I. The breadth is wasted. Wasted is the last stand. Shakes and quakes is the being with such glimpses.
I lay there for the exact time; 5 days and some hours. Not that I am keen on keeping time, I don’t even possess a clock or a watch. But this place keeps me in a condition…
I come back, but not the same, I don’t understand the ideas of emancipation.
The no-being greets the no-being like a beggar greets the king; like a whore greets her customer lover; like the rich man greeting his death. Like myself greeting no-one.
I wander, as I awaken. Thoughts are afraid of the I now. They hide where they can find space. They dig deep in the snow. Inverted; in cooling conditions such as ones promised, who sees who? You see everything in everything inverted…
The clouds you walk upon, the ice melts into rain to fall and drench thee. The sky pulls the earth and the earth reciprocates. The love quenches something what the bowl can’t ever hold.
The relapse isn’t a lapse. It is the lacking of the lapse.