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No. 29838
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>>27976
Two years ago, I made this post. Years before, I made that other one, then the others ones itt, back to 2018. The better part of a decade has passed. What has changed since then? I tried to be part of society again. I tried hard and earnestly. It's the same. I'm only allowed in as a slave, as an implement of destruction, as a believer of lies, as a knot in a bloody whip, as a perpetrator of suffering. Only allowed in as chattel, as cannon fodder for one tyrant against the other. Only allowed in as a blind follower of oligarchs, warlords, despots, tycoons, and maniacs. Only allowed in as a morsel for the lions. Only allowed in as a gullet for putrid, corrupted values; to be oppressed and to oppress, to abuse and be abused, to destroy and self-destruct. If I'm told to eat my own feet, I'm to be thankful for the opportunity, to stop when I'm gnawing at the ankles and ask for further instructions. I am not, no matter what, to dispute any of this, but to propagate it. I look at this inequity with crystal-clear lucidity, with excruciating intensity, and my reaction is a long, confused laughter distorted by bitter tears. They dry but don't stop running. I bend in pain, I crush my forehead against the floor, almost breaking my nose. This is the deal. Another one won't be offered, now or ever.
What choices are left for someone with a shred of morals? I find myself extracted like a bad tooth from the vicious maws of modern society. I am rotting, head first; my ambitions have rotted, my anger has rotted, my lust has rotted. My distractions have rotted. The basic prerequisite to be part of the self-proclaimed productive, enlightened, progressive society has rotted in me; I no longer covet. The insurmountable mounds of orders, proudly provided and brutally imposed by the political, financial, and secular powers of this world, lose their appeal. It becomes sewage. The only thing lingering is a bad odor in the air. A gentle breeze blows it away. My interest in Japanese culture has grown organically, without any pruning, for over 30 years now. I see the good parts and the bad parts. It's a growth that took unlikely turns, culminating in my own Journey to the West. One last mental effort before the breakdown of the body. I find this extraordinary, if for nothing else, because I didn't see it coming. Three years ago, Buddha was staring me in the face. "Enough is enough," I thought then; I made him think this through me, for my own benefit. It was time to get up and go. I got up. I went.
Where am I now? You wouldn't notice external differences yet. The surface has barely changed, except everything is further decayed and closer to its natural, unavoidable end. As for the mind, I'm studying Pali. I'm disappearing now, the little dust remaining is to be used to assemble a monk. This is my sandy, sinuous, last road to the West. I'm a lingering shadow of Dogen, of Moksadeva, crossing yet again the broken paths, the deserts, rivers, and mountains. 靴が壊れ足には水疱ができている पदत्त्थानं भिज्जति मम पादā पीळितā होन्ति। Where am I to end up? Where am I to fall upon the earth to not rise again? Where is the spot I'll look at my own two hands one last time? Wherever it is, I focus my mind towards the dhamma. I got a glimpse one day, years ago, and now I walk towards it. I was shamed and isolated as a student, shamed and isolated as a worker, shamed and isolated as a NEET, isolated I found my peers. I strive relentlessly towards the dhamma. The time for myself and others is over, the time to unbecome and remain dhamma has come.
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