Wandering Monk: Speaking with the Self

He stood grounded at that one place and turned round and round and round in circles till a sense of dizzy happiness overtook him. At once he saw his mountain friends, at once he saw the tall trees smiling at him, at once he saw the plain vast lands in their own silent frenzy.

The birds were curious of his turning around — some flew in the direction that he turned — never losing sight of his eyes, some flew in the opposite direction, catching him once every while when their sight collided in opposite direction.

It was all becoming a sudden one-ness while he spun relentlessly. He seemed to faintly recognise the common blur. The world seemed to be a different place with every revolution. Yet he was at the same place.

This is how a party looks, late at night, London, UK.

He was so easily able to answer all the questions that world posed for him. Yet, not a single question that he asked the world, was ever answered. But weren’t his questions the same as those that the world asked him? Did he then, not believe that the answers were the same?

He stopped spinning. Dizzy. The horizon was like a boat on gentle waves. The graphic representation of an abstract trigonometric equation. The mighty mountains seemed to be losing their balance even. Yet he stood on terra firma, though the land itself seemed to liquify.

Perhaps there weren’t any questions. Therefore, there weren’t supposed to be any answers. Or this world was full of answers, but we questioned them. Why then, did the questions come to life, and crowd the corridors of his mind? All that he knew — his thoughts, his answers almost, were blocked by the crowd of questions. He had all the answers, only they never reached him — they were jostling for space in the crowd of questions.

He had to make way.

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