flowing thoughts

    Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference into your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity, what is this death but a negotiable accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner. All is well. Nothing is hurt;

      Your aliveness is going down because you are committing suicide in installments by becoming selective in your involvement. Whatever you do willingly, that is your heaven. Whatever you do unwillingly, that is your hell. What is considered so beautiful can become so horrible; what is a great love affair, becomes rape if it happens to you when you are unwilling. The difference is just willingness and unwillingness. If you take away the willingness, the process of life naturally becomes a suffering. Whether your mind is a misery or your mind is a miracle simply depends on whether you are allowing life to happen to you absolutely willingly or unwillingly. Is your life a love affair or is life just raping you? That is the question. If you are being raped by life, then the mind is a misery. If your life has become a love affair, then life is blissfulness, and the mind too is blissfulness. If you look at every life, if you look at how every atom is functioning, you will realize you are s

      Quiet and pure is the night. yet another day slips out of our time space into memories soon to be lost. A single, lone star flickers in the center of the ocean above, the clouds are dashing for it now. I do not wish for it to go, but it does. I am alone, the moon diminishes far from my sight. The wind leaves tender kisses on every portion of my dirty, brown skin—I wish I could kiss it back. I wish I could hold onto her robe and follow her to her freedom land. Where is it, even? I do not know, but my heart races at all the possibilities. What is it that the leaves giggle and sway to? Some will say that it isn’t necessary to know but there is too much I do not know of—It is both a gift and a curse to know the secrets of the universe.

There were letters I wrote you that I gave up sending, long before I stopped writing. I don't remember their contents but I can recall with absolute clarity, your name scrawled across the pages. I could never quite contain you to those messy sheets of black ink. I could not stop you from overtaking everything else. I wrote your name over and over–on scraps of paper, in books and on the back of my wrists. I carved it like sacred markings into trees and the tops of my thighs. Months went by and few scars have vanished but the sting has not left me. Sometimes when I read a, parts will lift from the pages in an anagram of your name. Like a code to remind me it's not over. Like dyslexia in reverse. Say something to me. Quieten this silence of yours. Fill these empty spaces with your words, no matter how insignificant you claim them to be. I once tasted too much of the universe that lingered on your lips, consumed more than I planned of those woven around your words, and from the mom

                             pic credit:- google   Suffering is a misunderstanding. It exists… It’s real. I can call it a misunderstanding, but I can’t pretend that it doesn’t exist, or will ever cease to exist. Suffering is the condition on which we live. And when it comes, you know it. You know it as the truth. Of course it’s right to cure diseases, to prevent hunger and injustice, as the social organism does. But no society can change the nature of existence. We can’t prevent suffering. This pain and that pain, yes, but not Pain. A society can only relieve social suffering, unnecessary suffering. The rest remains. The root, the reality. All of us here are going to know grief; if we live fifty years, we’ll have known pain for fifty years… And yet, I wonder if it isn’t all a misunderstanding — this grasping after happiness, this fear of pain… If instead of fearing it and running from it, one could… get through it, go beyond it. There is something beyond it. It’s the self that suffers,