The view from rock bottom is grey,
there’s no difference between nighttime and day.
To get out means digging your way,
Or do nothing, and there you will stay.
.
The view from rock bottom is grey,
there’s no difference between nighttime and day.
To get out means digging your way,
Or do nothing, and there you will stay.
.
Or again: like a butterfly caught in a large temple bell, flying, fighting, fluttering against the cold, impenetrable arc, until, exhausted, wings stilled, it floats down, down, down . . . to freedom.
What’s below the bottom of anguish, of any attempt to escape it, of any presupposition that it should be escaped?
What’s below the bottom, if you but stay true to anguish deep deep into stillness, what reveals itself there where the bottom opens out?
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