In the darkness of the night, only occasionally
relieved by glimpses of Nirvana as seen through
other people's windows, wallowing in a morass of
self-despair made only more painful by the
knowledge that all I am is of my own making ...
When everything around me, even the kitchen
ceiling, has collapsed and crumbled without
warning. And I am left, standing alive and well,
looking up and wondering why and wherefore.
At a time like this, which exists maybe only for
me, but is nonetheless real, if I can communicate,
and in the telling and the bearing of my soul
anything is gained, even though the words which I
use are pretentious and make you cringe with
embarrassment, let me remind you of the pilgrim
who asked for an audience with the Dalai Lama.
He was told he must first spend five years in
contemplation. After the five years, he was
ushered into the Dalai Lama's presence, who said,
'Well, my son, what do you wish to know?' So the
pilgrim said, 'I wish to know the meaning of life,
And the Dalai Lama smiled and said, 'Well my son,
life is like a beanstalk, isn't it?'
Held close by that which some despise which some
call fake, and others lies And somewhat small for
one so tall a doubting Thomas who would be? It's
written plain for all to see for one who I am with
no more it's hard at times, it's awful raw
They say that Jesus healed the sick and helped the
poor and those unsure believed his eyes - a
strange disguise Still write it down, it might be
read nothing's better left unsaid only sometimes,
still no doubt it's hard to see, it all works out