The Sun Rolls On

Is the day born when the sun comes up, or when I wake up?

No, nothing in this round world waits for me. While I go on hibernating, winter ends and the flowers receive the same call to make the perfume of a new spring.

The river runs, the wheel rolls on, the birds sing. The storm passes and the sun shines.

But I witness none of it. In my nightmarish stream of dreams, it is still night. Between dreams, my eyes shiver, looking around at cruelty, wars and a predatory politics that devours humanity.

The world hurts without my having seen it. And perhaps it hurts because I haven't seen it.

But the scent reaches me sweetly. It is day. The brightness of the sky proves it. The green of the mountains bears witness to it as truth. The sun sings it into my drowsy ear.

In my dream, still distressed by the jolts of my dream reality, built on the premise that there exists an I, I begin to wish to wake.

A few rays of the king of the sky slip through the window and dazzle my eyelids. A vital command is injected into my blood.

To wake up, I first start realizing that I am asleep. I notice how random my blunders are, how anxiously I watch the world, and the coincidence that the darkness I perceive in the world is the same darkness I am passing through inside me.

Second, since I am dreaming, I see that I can choose my dreams at will. And so I choose to dream that I forgive all the pains the darkness of my perception soaked into my grieving muscles. The cruelty, the wars, the politics that still has us believing it is good to kill our children: all of it.

I look outside, I look inside. And I can notice the effect of that interaction, where it hurts. And whenever it hurts, it is in some psychologically stressed muscle. Always, the cramped one is a fiber that, in my absence, defended itself as best it could, without coordination or aim.

Having returned to the domain of my individuality, free of the emotional load that comes from dreaming an individualistic story, I begin by moving my fingers, feeling out the objective reality of the universe.

The truth of things is revealed to me, not as a prize or a grace for being a good warrior, but because I learn to sidestep falsehood. Without sin, I get up to pick up the stone.

I see myself sitting by the river. The sun shines.

Reality is crystal clear. Nothing happens here, everything is already given.

The breath is present, evidencing my individuality, yet I do not exist.

The flowers bloom, the wheel rolls on. The dream goes on.

But the spirit of the green mountains greets me and I bow to it in silence.