Box of matches

​It’s like, when I want to write, I feel that I have nothing to say, but now, when I have nothing to say, I might just write. It’s crazy how things get stuck in a karmic circle of life. Some people want to read books, some people want to write books, some people want to learn, some want to teach. I want none of those things. I want these letters to roam free. I want them to shine the beams of “God” that is hiding behind my flesh. Is it easy? Fuck no. If it was, then everybody would do it. There is no one topic for today, there are no rules. I hate rules. The only rules I obey, are the ones I created to cage my monkey mind. That is it. Discipline, self-mastery, awareness, consciousness, empathy. Easy words, hard practices.

Sometimes I like to smoke alone. Sometimes I like a glass of wine. It’s like, I don’t know what should I focus on… Is it the rap and poetry I’m seeking, or is it writing? Well both of them are really just about writing, one roams free (I just a need a paper and a pen), the other one needs equipment. Microphone, trip to the studio, money. Final product of my raps is easier to digest then my writing. I agree. But I like them both.

For the past month I have been working on empathy towards strangers. I have read somewhere that whenever walking by a stranger, say to yourself (in your head) „I want You to be happy.” That is it. Just this simple practice of thinking about a stranger, and wanting him to be happy, changes, melts something deep inside. And I’m not the Buddha, matter of fact, I believe that whenever you meet the Buddha, you need to kill that sucker. If he is trying to persuade you to be conscious, he is a fake, a phony. No enlightened being would force anything on you.

This page or two, are just my ways of beating resistance. If your life is a like box of matches, then each day is a burning match. If I don’t make anything new, anything fresh, anything that has any sort of a meaning, then they day is wasted. A burning desire that goes out with a PUFF. Go to work, drink coffee, send emails, drink more coffee, eat your lunch, go home, go shopping, do the laundry. This is not me. I do work in a corporate environment, but I’m fucking rebel. Whenever I gaze upon the open space of this gray, artificial environment, I don’t see human beings. I see miserable flesh computers. Behind the layers of egos, behind layers of social programming and other bullshit, is a being that is Me. I know it, but the illusion is so real. If I look into your eyes long enough, I can see you core. I know who you are. You are me. You are it. The cosmos, the universe, the chemical reactions that make it possible for you to experience This. Whatever it is. I cannot give it a name as the whole thing is indescribable.

On one hand I would like to teach you something. On the other, I would be a fake. I can only tell you about the things that move My heart. I can only push you towards happiness. I cannot give it to you in a physical sense.

Language is a weird technology. Made by humans, for humans. Not the Gods. Do Gods write poems? Do they bleed? Are they listening now? I don’t know. I do not have any answers. Whatever they are planning for me, I accept. I accept the fact that life is a coin. It has two sides. It is the Ying and the Yang. Everything happens for a reason, a reason that is not possible to digest by our monkey, ego driven brains.

I want you to be happy and live a life without pain.

That is all.


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