There has to be some higher merit,
a beam of a more profound victory,
of a more earthy war won over,
in meditating on a public bus, on your way to work,
squeezed in between dozens of pre-occupied strangers,
case in hand, with a sensory overload that cannot be
shunned by simply closing your eyes
and concentrating on Breath.
It has to be more complete, as divine, more real than sitting in ardha padmasana
on dewed grass, in the middle of nowhere, in robes
or naked, with the rising sun
and the smell .f clear .xygen
and the sound .f maanasa
and the touch .f guyan mudra
filled to the bone () with the taste .f consciousness .
Writing is not cathartic, even though its feeling of release is present; it is not enlightening, however, it provokes critical thinking; it is not, above all, entertaining, nonetheless it transports you. I write in order to rationalize interiority, to catch emic experiences with a net. Everything, however, revolves and remains inside.
