The waves lashed onto the limestone boulders. The cold breeze marked the winter's majestic entrance. People were busy burning off calories on the synthetic track. Aircrafts roared over them awaiting the landing signal. Speeding cars passed by the expressway. The place was a wrong choice to preach tranquillity. I sieved the pista-pinapple chunks out the drink i took to overcome the strains of the days fast. Typed a text message for my friend, 'Its Eid. People are busy around. I wish there be a Buddhist monastery around. I wish there be a friend like you to suggest me something with a note - you will like it'.
Later in the night I got a reply to prepare for an avalanche.
I was being taken to the mountains rich in reds and greens. The incense sticks, prayer wheels and prayer flags. A place familiar through Javier Moro's 'The Mountains of the Buddha'. Gayness seeped in as water through the xylem vessels. Mind relished in the enamouring joy, peace and madness. I was in search of my bodhi. Through the dark caves of stone age men, through the long corridors with wooden blocks set aside, through the vacant altars where the light was always coloured in blue, green and orange. Radiant white light drove in through the broken window panes. I was being attracted to it as the moth towards fire.
These are outdated ideas. You sulk when you go for it. You have more options. Tequila, Eau-ve-de-vie, absinthe, marijuana and even more, the psychedelic beats at the discotheque.Or you can write about sex or to criticize the perverts around. We aren't monks, but the saints of insanity.
Later in the night, I had more chats and discussions with my friends. I make these notes to very few ones who make me feel so important in this world. For you, the space cannot contain my words.
The picture is a collage painting I did on whirling dervishes and Buddhism.