Do you gaze upon a mountain range and judge its wrinkles and crow’s feet? Do you behold an ancient tree, its branches twisted and knotted, and desire it to be more youthful?

You are a boomerang, which springs forth from the Absolute and returns to the Absolute.

Every moment is a death; an ending. Every word uttered flowers only once and is gone forever as soon as it passes your lips…

The I-thought is like a lighthouse…

A child sits alone in the dark; her very favorite thing.

Truth is like an aquifer, residing always beneath the earth’s surface, perpetually replenishing itself. And awakening is the process of digging a well, completely alone, by hand.

My ego is a pit of quicksand, which I stepped into long ago, when I was just a child. And there I’ve stayed, sinking…slowly.

Self is like a soap bubble, floating through the air. There is air within and air without…is it different air? In appearance, perhaps. But then the bubble pops, and there is only air.

In my house rests a trophy case: the place where I keep my most prized possession. But this possession, of course, is not static. No…

He walks hand-in-hand with her, his lover. She, who has no face. He worships her, his faceless lover, for she can do no wrong in his eyes.

Suddenly, the ant sunk its tiny, jagged pinchers into my flesh, a sharp stinging pain shooting through my ankle. But I remained still, unmoving…