the dispassion of waking

You wake, open the curtains, and think, you should have written it down last night. 

Last night, when the 9pm Alaskan Summer sun was casting everything in a golden light, lithe and pliable. Last night when the mountain tops startled in the infinite sky, disrobed of cloud, dispassionate in their inspiration of passion in your heart. And you, sitting on your ocean-side porch, which will soon be vacant of you, watching the dispassionate mountain peaks warble in the sun’s gold. Watching with passion, the mountain valleys growing purple in shadow. And you glance down from the patient and dispassionate mountains, the purple and passionless valleys, to the book you read. The book gently guides you towards the wisdom to be found in being free of prejudice and aggression. To growing in equanimity. To shed your passions. 

And you look back to the mountains and they are iridescent and undulating in their permutations of gold. And you feel passion. But you didn’t last night write any of it down. And the sweetness of the words you then felt, they no longer sing in your blood. 

You open your curtains to the morning and see the dispassionate mountain peak once again cloaked in unassuming cloud. The trees meet the ocean and then race upwards to disappear behind the sigh of cloud. Your blood mutters but it does not sing. You hear your breath and feel yourself alone. Passionately lonely. You start a fire to bend the morning’s cold, the wood snaps in fire’s dispassionate dance. The eagles outside shriek their hunger without passion. The ocean’s tide is going out, even-tempered in its motion. And your muttering blood sparks the hum of your heart, the quiet howl of your soul.

With sore stiff still awakening body, you passionately seek dispassion. Knowing full well that to seek is to lack, to feel passion is to suffer. You are not cognitively and philosophically sophisticated enough for the composure of mountain, the steadfastness of ocean, the shrieking hunger of eagle. You are opening the curtains to the quietly clouded morning. 

You are sore, stiff. You are still waking. 

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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