At first I thought they were just words, just more blah blah, but one question led to another, and to another, and to another, and to another until at some point the language itself dissolved into doubt and I was no longer sure where I was, or why, or when it was, or who I was, or what I believed, or why I believed anything at all, and I awoke totally lost and speechless in an infinite and profound mystery, and that's when he opened the mystic door to the realm I had imagined to be only myth—and, when he beckoned, though I was scared, I stepped through, and then everything, everything changed, changed utterly, and there was no going back, not ever, no, not ever again.
 
   

 


 
 
twentypearls94 on
Re: TEACHER, MASTER, LORD
The five questions in journalism: who, what, when, where, how? Do tell!

schencka on
Re: TEACHER, MASTER, LORD
Great style of incantation here -- I'm sensing shades of Faulkner, Conrad, and Whitman, mixed with the content of que horrible writers like the Dalai Lama. (I don't think he writes well, or that those books by Buddhist monks are written all that well.) That content being the supremely difficult to write about subject of spiritual growth.

Writing is so fun and such a great art; while writing, one may remember the beautiful flow or intentional bluntness of a long-forgotten sentence.

 
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Re: 41 UNBECOMING BUDDHIST - Yes, they don't seem to grow weaker from overuse—or do they? "God," "damn,"...

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