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?
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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