I am restless. The stone is still. I think, “If only I were like the stone..” but that is wanting to achieve something, and that makes stillness only an idea. I feel the element of the stone, the solid, heavy energy. I contrast myself with that energy; and too much… I feel my blood and skin and vulnerability. But I would not want to be the stone, it is too solid, cannot form words, cannot deepen its relationship.
When I let go of my many thoughts and desires, it is scary. I give up all my satisfactory distance to things. If I am worried about something, I invent a relationship to it, and wrap around a ‘good reason’ for the way things are. Or if it is clearly more uncomfortable, I wrap around worry itself, thinking that if I can only keep playing ping pong with it, I will figure it out.
When I let go of my many thoughts and desires, it is scary. I give up all my satisfactory distance to things. If I am worried about something, I invent a relationship to it, and wrap around a ‘good reason’ for the way things are. Or if it is clearly more uncomfortable, I wrap around worry itself, thinking that if I can only keep playing ping pong with it, I will figure it out.
What is the measure of the true distance between the stone and my skin; between my self and the stars?
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