And the bodies go by barely half awake. Awaiting things to come again, nice things to come. It’s such a nice environment I’m in. I wonder why I’m here. And the bodies go by barely half awake. All but the few ever notice anything at all. Oh dear! All but the few ever notice anything at all. – Killing Joke
A crawling cumulonimbus tsunami crests over the Sandia Mountains chased by impending darkness from the east. I stand on the balcony rolling a cigarette between my fingers and gaze at the smoke wisping from its growing cylinder of ash. The clouds and the smoke display their impermanence as they dance and float through the crags and crevices of the phenomenal world. My mind makes them solid while the mountain peak evaporates and I go transparent.
I learned a secret not too long ago and ever since, my participation in the serial drama of civilization has been voluntary. I know that I can bow out at any time and I pity those who don’t realize this. They are the ones who nurture suffering through their ambitions. The drama builds to an intolerable crescendo because of all those fractured minds who just…can’t…let…go.
If you were able to release your grip, you’d see that you are holding on to nothing for dear life. You are not what you say you are. You don’t own a single thing. No one’s image resides within the atria and ventricles of your heart.
My voluntary participation in the desperate futility is becoming too risky. It’s easy to get caught up in the frenzy, forgetting it’s all just a hologramatic display from the projector of my mind. So I bid the world adieu once again and float away to a vantage point where I can take in a panoramic view of Samsara playing out below my aimless cloud.
From up here, I can see hordes of sentient beings breaking off into color coordinated bands that rush headlong at each other, knives out, faces contorted with rage. Some fall, others run and regroup to fight another day. They fight for their lives unaware that they’re already dead.
Some wield smiles like a weapon, strolling hand in hand with full plumage on display. I stare through a layer of mist at a drone dispatched by the nation they love. It films their every move and records their subversive laughter for further investigation.
From up here, it all plays out in silence. The Rube Goldberg contraptions conjured by overactive imaginations criss-cross the landscape to facilitate communication between people who do not listen to anything but the noise in their own heads. My eyes briefly tear up as sadness overwhelms my sense of peace and I realize I got out in the nick of time.
I nearly believed it was real again.