Walking by myself against the setting sun, I ventured towards the shrine atop Rileys Peak, bringing with me two plastic flowers. One to mark the trail and the other to offer to the grave. I notice for the first time the setting sun, yet only through the radical colours that swirl like pastels bleeding into the sky from the vantage point of this ridge line. Poking through little cracks in the rooftops of trees, always along the horizon. All illusion, but too many distinguishable forms. The cycles seem lifted but they are always apparent. The trees sway out in the unison of their order, Maras army is in every distinguished pine needle. Would I go and try and count either one with a hope of success? Though the trees appear larger, they are always the ones farthest out. The pine needles as uncountable as they appear around me, eventually they will fade into ceder and the counting can stop. As I walk I script a poem in my head, Silent mind walking.
Feet crunch on snow
It guides me as the meditation adjusts to my body and the medication stifles any concentration. I envision all as the sticks and stones being thrown by Maras ranks, breaking my meditation, and me, half-crazed, eyes bulged. Chasing Maras Army across kalpa after kalpa. With no more distractions, all sentient beings pass into the pureland with ease.