Cold, damp, and underslept. Such a glorious hangover to have arrived at such a naked conclusion. Out of my soaking wet tai chi shoes, and into a pair of Brad’s borrowed sandals. Tranversing through the muck of this campsite. Struck by desolation, beautiful soft mosses and ferns, carrying around three litres of cheap Wine in some cowboy jug. My best friends, my only Sangha in the galaxy I can percieve outside this universal connection. Call to reason, a sort of slight depression, nowhere, not a thing feels like home, but no sense of being lost or even being there altogether. Essentially a body, essentially a mind, essentially two halves of a greater misconception. What throws me at odds with the universe? Sincere clarity is all I come looking for, nodding out beside the flickering fire as it contrasts with the void of Muskoka Night. No light from civilization to see its stammer, no point to exist past perception, only the shadows of trees but just the taller, higher branches that twist out over the flame like a canopy. I choose not to believe in the concievability of the belief in god, yet I am affirmed by this faith. No misconduct, or trial and error. I’ll make my living for me, a rock among rocks in this ancient Algonquin escarpment. Moss covered and lichen crusted. All the beautiful northern flowers starting to pop out, little seedlings, little samsara sprouting into the greater more encompassing Samsara of my being, yet my being more irrelevant, much less noteworthy. Go unnoticed in the greater scenery. Into the majestic lakes and moose swamps filled with newborn lillies and unblossomed lotus flowers, the rotting trunks of trees, bleached bone-white piercing out the stillness of the water like floating shinto pillars on some volcanic lake honoring the kami, mirroring that now quiet mountain that made her in such chaos. Sincere clarity and the mirror. The lake reflects its maker, the lake in turn creates, no different, no less or more than the mightiest Samsara. The mountain exists on the surface entirely, but A stones throw blurs the image. Illusion shattering, only to reform once the ripples of cause and effect have subsided. I imagine myself in a canoe and with three paddles, it is climbed. With nowhere to stab this puny flag, keep paddling into the sky, into the horizon, all anew, all returning. The only thing not cleared is the reflection of myself peering off the edge, untill I myself, stop peering off the edge. A sudden shift of perspective. The horizon reanimates. Sincere clarity, where everything changes but nothing is changing. This consistant reacting. A constant. In all subtlety, of all subtlety. Mere reflection. Disapearing, I am. Redistributing, I am.