the reason why i now resent saying anything explicitly revealing, especially of the true nature of the self, whatever that may mean, or even if that existed, is that i now prefer, to keep things to myself. gone are the days of yapping incessantly here, because it is of no use, as it does nothing to make me ‘feel better’, because words, they can only do so much as to convey meaning, of defining things already in your head, only in a constructed manner.
so i prefer to do pretty much most of my thinking and talking aloud and imagine words being written when i stare into the ceilings. preferably in a low-light, or best in closed dark spaces zone. only no more grasping gestures to see my own hands, nor tracing letters. this way, spacing out for hours seems pretty much a viable option rather than writing things i would most likely edit and put in drafts. perhaps the number of my drafts here to the number of posts here is ten to one. absolute secrecy.
another thing to note is perhaps due to much reading. i am reading too much, too many things at once. by too many, of course, the ideas would be as less intriguing, since one book comes after another. not as effective. not as fascinating. we played the flute for you, and you did not dance. not much time for reflecting. impatience, i would call it. at this age, young as i am, time is fleeting much at a faster rate, and somehow we seem to rush things. a certain feeling of death looms besides me. so many things to do, to read, to watch, to practice, to play, to listen, yet what must be ultimately done is to cut away from all this. one day, definitely, i shall go and sit under my own bodhi tree. and sit. one of these days.
i, too, need to go somewhere new fast.
Go to bed, now. Quickly. Quickly and slowly.
perkaraperkara 