My practice is the act of being lost and coming back. It’s a constant journey of drifting in and out of awareness, caught in my own body, mind and ego. I am lost in the swirl of my thoughts, emotions, cravings and distractions, believing in the reality of what I see, feel and think. But in those fleeting moments, I wake up—only to get lost again, drawn back into the illusion.
It is a continuous fall and a constant return. I lose myself in desires, attachments and the fleeting nature of life, and yet, each time, I return to the quiet space behind it all. My practice is one long, unending try—trying to see beyond the veil, trying to find the truth, even though it feels like I never quite arrive.
It is a struggle between form and formlessness, between ego and egolessness, between being a somebody and the truth of being a nobody. I am pulled into the illusion of separation, yet there is a part of me that knows the oneness beneath it all.
My practice is being lost in my own experience, then coming back to the present moment—over and over, with no end. It’s the struggle to remain aware amidst the chaos, the noise, the distractions. It’s the silence within the clamour of the world. It’s truth hidden beneath layers of lies, a formless space within the constantly shifting forms of thought and perception.
I am lost in my own experience, but with each return, I find myself again, if only for a moment. It is a path of continuous falling and coming back, a process of constant seeking and awakening to what is, even if I forget again and again.
It’s a practice of one continuous struggle, one continuous mistake, one continuous coming back.
The City in the Morning
I’m walking in the city,
On the streets, in the morning.
I choose a random path.
Walking with my eyes open,
And I see a different world.
An everlasting life unfolding,
In myriad shapes and forms.
Pigeons dancing to the dance of life.
A beggar sitting on the pavement.
The places of illusions and escape.
The pub, the nightclub, the corner shop,
Selling illusions, the need to escape.
The old, cracked buildings.
Rubbish on the street.
And plants growing on the old wall.
And I notice the dichotomy and dissonance
Of life and death, mind and the self,
Have never been apart,
But they are both parts of the same reality,
The same one unfolding in the myriads of forms, in each moment, each space.
Walking the path involves losing it and finding back, being far away and close.
In death and life,
In destruction and harmony,
Is the same unfolding of life
In the myriad of forms.