living and not living

 

i remember a story from a school text book. it was about a king who fell ill. it was a mysterious illness, which nobody could cure him of. a message was sent across the world that anyone who could cure the king would be handsomely rewarded. a failure to cure would result in summary execution – that was how it was, i guess. finally, one wise man suggested a cure – the king should wear the shirt of a carefree man, with no worries at all. after searching across the length and breadth of the land for such a person, they ultimately came across a beggar who fit the bill of a ‘carefree man’ perfectly. he was laughing the heartiest laughter that was ever laughed. but he had no shirt, not even a piece of clothing on him. the king was made to realise the folly of his thousand imagined illnesses and he was never ill again; so ends the story.

and another poem – i dont remember the lines. or the poet. it was something about the poet’s wish for a perfect life. and a perfect death. he ends up with his wish for a perfect burial. i remember the last line well – ‘and not a stone tell where i lie.’
on one side there is this truth of life – that real happiness is not what we really suppose it to be. that happiness comes from being detached, being unknown, very ordinary. 
on the other side we have the thousand invisible strong threads that bind us to the business of everyday life. where a thousand pangs and passions wreak havoc on the tender soul. 
where lies the middle path of salvation?
a ping pong tossed between the extremes of attachment and detachment?
does one live in indulgence? or in renunciation?

 

but then, 
what worth is life if one cannot live at least one full intense moment?

burn fully, even if for a moment

before the wind scatters you

a fistful of dry ashes.

***