"One day when you're ready to go, I'll be dead. Then we'd have missed the boat."
That was exactly what happened this year. I was ready; he had left. Yes you will die one day. I do not plan on it happening. Yet that one day will come. I stare out the window at the sea, and know that you are right. But I can't find the hunger that you asked about. I will never learn. This is where you are right again. Sometimes I'm 60, sometimes I'm 6.
"My greatest worry for you is that you will become detached. Then you will sell paintbrushes in a little shop and let your life, and the world, go by."
In the midst of those abstract dreams, stark images and being jolted from disturbing sleep, detachment is my final soma.
"Sit. Stay. Heal."?
I want to leave. Please.
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