Sitting at my workplace, contemplating peace.
Peace, this morning, meditating upon a passage... That all is change, and that all blessings may become curses, that all curses may become blessings.
Nothing is stable in quality,
this is nothing to celebrate nor lament.
Equanimity is not something to "will" into existence, but can arise from the dropping of ambition, even if for a moment.
The "gathering of bearings".
This moment feels full... yet also
empty of any particular content (any content-in-particular)
and therefore full.
What work is there left for me to be done?
In what guise will this work make itself manifest (or will I manifest "my" "self" in it)?
Moving forward, what is there ?
Everything feels as a strange privileged entertainment...
What are the responsibilities that come with such precarious peace?
My death may be caused by the symbols of any of my freedoms.