It is said that monks meditate upon their deaths. They learn non attachment to the body mind complex because they sit with its impermanence.
I myself take a walk. I walk and I notice. I notice and I walk. I find an anteater in the middle of the road. His insides are turned outward. His brown matted hair is tangled up with his pruning organs. The minutes pass, and the sun is setting while he continues to rot.
Life is a delicate matter. The spider’s web gets torn down by one hand. The anteater attempts to cross a road. The boy isn’t loved well, and he suffers loudly. The youth turns fundamentalist, and blows himself up.
All of us, one action away from the end. The end of the neighborhood street. The end of the president’s message. The end of a fictitious story.
I don’t believe in God because he refuses to answer me. Death gives what life never could and what the Bible wouldn’t deliver. A peaceful rest and a return to wholeness. I believe to die is holy, what else have we come here to do?
Mortals must face mortality to know it has no face. Death is impersonal. Finally, we’re all treated the same.
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