there is no sea wide enough
nor mountain high enough
nor desert dry enough
nor harem enticing enough
nor monastery quiet enough
nor career fulfilling enough
nor wife wonderful enough
to escape
to escape the truth that our lives are all wasted.
flowers that never opened completely or often enough.
trees that never reached their full height.
we are all failures. and one cannot escape the ashes in one's mouth.
ashes and fine sand. death!
the taste will never leave me. i feel that this is how god feels too, yet always also full of life.
he is the ghost of christmas present turning to ash while he laughs one last laugh.
but even though i am dieing and this is good, what of my wife, my children?
i must plow my field. you are dead anyway, might as well plow.
