Thursday, 6 September 2012

Silent But Deadly

I practice in order to disappear. That's what I want. I used to think it was death, but it's not. It's non-existence, which is very different. That's why I went to the woods. Not to exit like a suicide, who thinks he'll somehow be able to enjoy the remorse of those left behind, but like a buddha, whose non-existence comes of nonattachment. He doesn't care if anyone feels sorry. And I mean doesn't care: he doesn't reject or scorn or turn his back on this life. He doesn't seek any consolation or victory, pyrrhic or otherwise. He just flat doesn't care.

True freedom is like farting. You're walking around, and suddenly you fart. Which you do, because you're living on rice and beans. And you don't say, "Ha, world! I fart upon you!" Neither do you say, "I must live my karma, as you must live yours. And right now, my karma is farting." And you don't even say, "Gentle world, dearest mother, brother, and child, I regret so that I must fart, but being human I've no choice, and therefore I ask, with profound love and respect, that you pull my finger."

You just fart. And it makes no sound, for there is no-one to hear it. And thus, by human reckoning, you never farted at all.

That is what I seek. Not to cease existing, but to never have existed.

If you could find that at the end of a rope, I'd'a been dead years ago.

(Adapted from 100 Days on the Mountain, copyright RK Henderson.)
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