Nathaniel T. Hughes

We were amazing beyond worldly definition, cosmic rivers of suffering settling as oceans of desire in pitted bellies. It was tempting waves, an alcoholic thought of reverie calling on us, two polar opposites as tides, as separated light that blinds. We drank from each other then bathed until our souls caught fire, our consciousness momentarily becoming one. Shirtless, we glowed; our essence: a raging silence that deafened, a home of impermanence escaping the world. We set fire to the mirage and ideas separate of ourselves. We fell asleep on warm concrete pillows; transcending compassionate form, it was OK to say goodbye to the dream, OK to awake to the fading imperfection of the loving Yasodhara and Siddhartha we'd become.

Restless mind, just listen, like you know no better: the days aren't days, or minutes that are fragmented seconds of the infinite. It's a suchness of life not separate, a song that pervades us in all directions, yet only touches us when we're carefully sober, not praying for sun or rain, nobly resting unattached in a middle way. Why not oblige the stillness? Everything else has been wonderfully set in motion We have nothing to do But to not have something to do. It's only when we sit still that we feel; we are truly being moved.