Travelogue: In Solitude

Solitude

 

I dwell within the crowded city, 
But there is no noise at all. 
You ask how this is possible, 

"Where heart is distant, solitude comes" – Tao Chien

I grew up in cities where sheers in layers block the breathing air; where non-stop clamours go on and on. 

I saw places where lines, borders, invisible cages bar the spirit; where never-ending chaos mix with the toils of day and night. 

I feel the days go by, and few people have diverted from the tainted life; even fewer in search persistently of the long-lost seclusion where they belong.

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I started my journey seeking hermit’s existence in distant places. I dreamed of a place, where body is free of dust, mind without a care. 

Detachment

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I fell in love with the idea of detachment, the idea that hermits cling to little in their life, for they see no difference between themselves and all that is around them; they embrace solitude and withdraw from convention; they distain social expectations and take shelter in seclusion to retain their peace of mind.

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They believe that illusion and enlightenment, universals and particulars, are equally unique, just as ourselves.

I understand that all things are impermanent. 
When the days and months are not able to linger, the four seasons press upon one another,

 

Our feeble constitution declines with the passing of time. 

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Our shelter is an inn for a traveler, 
And we are like guests that must depart. 
Away, away, to where are we going?

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"To hide in the world and alter with age."

- Robert Frost 

Transience

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We perch among clusters and rest in a box; 
We roll in the darkness among lights and songs;

We watch sunset up high above thousands of houses;  
We stroll along and immerse in streams of fascination. 

Once you see through transience and illusion, 
the joys of roaming free are wonderful indeed.

I ended my journey fantasizing distant sanctuary beyond the reach of trouble, and started to look for detachment and delusion in my own mind.

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"While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the deep heart's core." – W.B.Yeats

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The breeze is fresh at dusk. 
Flying birds return in flocks. 
Among these perceptions lies the essence…

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"But when I try to tell, the right words escapes"