Dancing on Emptiness.
Winter is drawing in. Drawing us in.
A relatively free person like myself has enough time to contemplate, as this season of
White, and dull greys sets in my hometown in Punjab.
One after another , I go through snippets of little things that I like and admire.
A chapter I get to read for free in the Granta magazine online version, before this novel is released. Some woman about her Chinese father, and mother who have passed away. I read Colin Thubrons existentials on the value of travel, and travel writing.
Make my way through some funny youtube videos, and the earthly blog ZenHabits. Net.
There is a table of possibility as big as my large office table. La Table.
A divine spreadsheet, of thoughts available, flights into fantasy available,
Travel writing available, Emptiness available,. Silence available.
Perhaps what I seek from these little pits of pleasure, that are derived from these beautiful
Written words, visuals, etc is Beauty. And probably beauty leads me to silence, to a fullness.
And yet, all along all that I perceive, all that I wrangle around my mind trying to achieve Beauty is but being observed from Beauty itself.
Is the witness not beautiful. The Sakshi.
Is Emptiness not biutiful. Not electric.
The haven of space that keeps everything together. The harem of desires.
The shutters of light, and dark. The images and words.
The bleak and the robust.
Are not the pairs of opposites hanging on the pendulum of emptiness.
Then why, why does man grind himself like Epsom-salt?
Why does man cry like a lonewolf, haunted by night.
Why does manifestation bother us. Both attractive and repulsive.
I am poised in the groundless flat ocean of Emptiness.
Not the heart-wrenching emptiness, but what Buddhists refer to,
When they talk about it. Emptiness.
That thought reduced is empty of the form of thought.
Desire reduced is nothing but emptiness.
Human beings reduced, anything reduced is simply emptiness.
Even emptiness is emptiness.
Or emptiness holds emptiness.
And tis true.
In this vast tableau of thought forms, ideas, feelings, we amass, and we go through,
And we pit ourselves againt, and we push ourselves on the wall against, is all but
A pink ocean of emptiness.
And therefore, all is Pink.
I try to think, this very moment, write, feel, act on it.
I have a few couple of hundred forms swimming inside me,
Battling for expression.
Just thoughts, busy playing the game of attention wanting.
Where do they step from?
The Small “I”.
What is this “I” when reduced.
So, here I am .
Beyond even the idea of “Emptiness”.