The day brings with it many things. These things all share the state of passenger, only am I, in passing, the passenger of my own making, my own unmaking, this eventual entirety. Must this discourse dwell further, or has it met its mark, totality and total disentegration? Excuse me for living, a Homeless drunken Buddha transmission in a bus terminal. Is it with a little charity, or with a little poison that I buy a meal for someone begging, and then feel compelled to give in to their askings for more, from a Burger King Whopper, to the whole shebang, french fries and a Coca-Cola. Now is it I, who am in need of charity, mentally starving, physically poor and I can hear my own stomach grumbling out its own discontents. Rotted out today by too much black coffee and swallowed tobacco smoke, and remainents of cheap chinese noodles that felt satisfactory upon entering, but now, feel empty. Life of the passenger, knowing the destination without knowing the momentums. All stationary while traversing to the finite. The end and the credits, or the credits and then the end? What signals all this motion to a ceasing mechanism, and is this ceasing mechanism anything other then a readjustment, with no stopping inbetween? Something like a railway switch, train forever barreling forward, east, west, north or south, passing, avoiding, determining opposing trains on the opposite track going forward none the less, and all the more. After passing, after phasing, after rearranging, nothing. The destination, mind going forward, but where does it move? The body being held back in decay, but where does it go? Memories and thoughts, with each piece of rotting flesh that falls from the scab, notice it as it falls, is it dirtier in the soil or on the wound? Life, love, and compassion in the ants that carry these scabs away to their colony and their queen. No longer bitter over causation. I’ve become it and then detached, being constantly nibbled away, A nimble passenger in passing.
Namu Amida Butsu