Is death something to be worried about?
Is death to be feared?
Is discomfort?
Or is discomfort fear itself manifested?
Alcohol gone to upset stomach.
Rumination gone to headache.
Overwork turned to aching knees.
Are beliefs held for a long time the same as lies?
Do beliefs held and dropped act the same way?
Are they smaller, larger or insignificant?
As if a truth could be found in rehearsed words.
Holding tightly to anything cheapens its value.
A man squeezing carbon tightly does not make a precious stone.
The earth doing the same thing does.
You living is the earth squeezing carbon ever so softly.
You hurrying is a man running away from gems.
Is there such a thing as death?
With language there is.
You and your collection of thoughts will die.
But with nature, the leaves of grass unfold constantly –
never stopping.
The seed becomes root, becomes blade,
becomes stalk, becomes seed – becomes blade again –
all in one uninterruptible, eternal moment.
Without words.
With words, a silly lawn dies.
And with man and his thoughts there is a sleeping and awakening.
Dozing and startling.
Until he knows that he’s a grass-like journeywork.
A voyage through eons, telling himself he’s the hero and the villain.
Arisen and dead.
