Death of Desire

I see a clear lake, almost a mirror to the oak trees that decorate its boundary. The sun is a welcome guest. I look around at the beauty. Leaves whistling with the wind, trees swaying to the tunes, and sunrays shimmering through the waves in the lake.

Also in the reflections is my face — the only sign of human life in all that’s visible. The wind’s the only sound, the lake’s the only sight. It is strange to be within immense beauty, but all by yourself.

The trekker climbs for the peak, the researcher wants to churn out papers of discovery, the government employee wants a promotion… It is a long tunnel, one of desire. The critical part is its very end. There is nothing to seek, nothing to climb, nowhere to reach, so nowhere to go.

Like a little cloud in to a bigger one, action seems to merge with inaction. The leaf and the stone are one and the same. There isn’t even disappointment. It is simply the death of desire. Legs do not take steps anymore; they do not wish to. Here, there, somewhere, and nowhere — all seem to be the same place.

No expectations, says the scripture. No attachment to joy, relations. No dreams, no hopes. It is all an illusion.

The real and the unreal merge. Last shouts of attachment disappear in to thin air — unanswered, yet again.

I’m not among the well-equipped. Hard to act is if nothing happened. Hard to act as if what was said was not meant. Intention was not ephemeral; it was pure. And it could not be thrown in to a dump of insomnia, even as the Mayors of Illusion want it that way. They say it’s for sanity, for a sanity that I no longer feel attracted to.

Hypocrisy, I see thine laughing face everywhere. It is your arena. You own it. And I don’t want in, in the first place. I rest my case.


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