by Alfonso Almeida
I would rather be discontent in the face of a sour situation, than ignore it. And yet, rest easy at night with a clear conscience, knowing that I have tomorrow to affect the world in accordance with what my ego deems “best” for humanity. It isn’t an idyllic vision, but there is kindness involved, which I’ve apportioned equally for man, the fish in the sea, and the trees surrounding me.
All I desire is a brief moment to smile at a blooming flower, or, see my dog smiling at me; and I mean really see.
However, when I’m walking with friends, I usually end up arguing about the definition of complex concepts, like meditation: its various disciplines; the physio-psychosocial effects, and the corresponding chemical indicators, which correlate to our thoughts’ sensual residue.
I provoke these arguments, I guess, because I refuse to accept myopic views of meditation; a word and practice(s), which, in certain variants, aims at ego dissolution and distancing oneself from the emotionally laden components of language.
After all, we are but rats in a labyrinth, from a macroscopic perspective—and yet we feel, in a near contradiction, as if the world revolves around us.
From a very early age, I assumed that I understood the implicit gravity of terms like brilliance, truth, and wisdom (you know it when you see it!). And the more I studied, the more I believed that I possessed these qualities in much greater quantities than the Average Joe.
But, after sitting and reflecting in my parents’ family room, surrounded by stacks of high-brow books,—I realized that all of the profundity in the world wasn’t worth a drop of dew.