There is no coming to be. There is no ceasing to be. There is only being, and not-being. I am a being, incessant, eternal, infernal. I am a being, with boundaries, doomed to take up space, to take up time. Fully enabled to eat food. Constantly lucid. Prone to misuse.
A singularity alone. Until I leave this world, I will be encased in skull and skin. Incapable of Being-Another.
I am a being passing time, I, at the beginning of a long time, passing it until it begins to seem short. I constantly crave the future, especially at the indeterminate moments when it is clear that the future is not presently occurring.
I move through geography freely. I inhabit places discontinuous. Everywhere is disjunction. I can know India and I can know America without ever knowing the ocean. Everything everywhere is the same. I am the same everywhere. Everywhere I am new, a being from outside, I do not know what I signify where. I do not know what my presence tells people about themselves. I invite myself into communities. I find them open, as if waiting for me. I am lead to the right places, have found right places all over dissimilar countries.
Which is being a guest. A constant stream of needs, a constant need to inhabit as small a space as possible, as if by shrinking myself enough, that small space will become my own.
I ride the surface of things, my body and I. Never will I see the inside, no matter where on the surface I roam. Not in this life. If there is enlightenment to be had, I am not ready for it. Not in this life. Because I like life too much.
And because I was raised in axiomatic liberal equality, I do not believe in the human capacity to transcend the human. If I cannot, how can another? Solitary years of tapas in the mountains may only make you mad and malnourished. A day spent in meditation is still a day spent, a daily event. A thing that seeks to transcend the body is still a thing of the body. A guru is a person in a community.
I seek eventual expansion. I dream of an eventual global community bound by more than economy, which is fickle. All those that I know ought to know each-other, even if only through me. I want to be a body of connections that can traverse space.
What deadens my mind is frustratingly similar to what sets it aflame. Ganesha cut off his Ivory Trunk to make a pen. Must I also mutilate myself for words? Will I give my body alongside my mind to this page? What reward in this do I seek? Many of those I worship did. Because heroism, even distasteful, dirty, lewd and incomprehensible, comes from sacrifice.
In the end, I am only scorched flesh, mixing with thousands of businesslike defecations floating down the river Ganges. Reconverted, used again in writhing flesh. I brought nothing here with me, and I will leave empty handed, without even my own red meat.