In Samsara Caught

I become entangled in the dramas of my dream. I worry that I don’t know what is going on. I worry that I’m wasting my time. I worry that perhaps I have not accomplished enough. I worry that I will be alone. That I will not be what I should be. I worry about what they would think of me. The more I worry what they think of me the more I forget the solitude of the empty space.

I play this game so well that I forget for a moment that I truly believe for a moment that I am here sitting, surrounded by an ocean of minds, of people moving–each one in their own way; that they look at me and that it matters; that whatever happens to me is somehow important. I worry that I might not know what’s going on. And what then? What will then happen to me? Me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me.

Each enunciation of me, of “I am,” becomes like a pebble, a rock, a concentration of tiny impressions that I put in my pocket, filling myself with the weight of time. Self importance. Solid, I become––hard shelled, immovable will––until everything is so heavy, so hard, that I no longer see beyond myself; that I no longer move outside this box. No longer these hands touch anything but themselves. No longer my heart feels. No longer my ears hear other than the crazy tumultuous thoughts, unconnected impressions that flow. No longer can I touch anything outside other than the mere sensations generated by a physical network of nervous systems sending impressions of light––chemical reactions flowing inside, an entire lifetime, an ocean of illusory time moving within this empty shell, heavy with false concerns.

The stage feels more solid. A spark flows from somewhere, somehow. It comes as a delicate smell. It pulls a tiny part of my attention. A very small light that I can’t quite see vanishes the moment I fix my eyes on her, leaving behind only the most subtle trail of mystery as a tiny moment of life outside the mesh of self concern. It comes and goes. Comes and goes, like the tides of an ocean.

When it’s gone, it seems like just the faint trails of a forgotten dream, something not real enough, not truly tangible, just a hint of a something indescribable. And when it’s here it has such an undeniable presence that for a brief moment seems able to dissolve all my suffering, all my concern.

It’s just at that moment when I’m about to surrender to the joy that seems to come from that gentle touch, just at that  moment, I fear that if I give in to that voice I might lose all the weight I’ve accumulated throughout my organic existence. I hold on to my suffering, for the fear of dissolution into the kiss of that beloved star. It comes and goes in an odd rhythm with odd sounds.