"Because when we give too many fucks, when we choose to give a fuck about everything, then we feel as though we are perpetually entitled to feel comfortable and happy at all times, that’s when life fucks us"
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Dinesh's Vault
Just a little binary space for storing random mundane stuff...
Upagupta - by Rabindranath Tagore
Upagupta, the disciple of Buddha, lay sleep in the dust by the city wall of Mathura.
Lamps were all out, doors were all shut, and stars were all hidden by the murky sky of August.
Whose feet were those tinkling with anklets, touching his breast of a sudden?
He woke up startled, and a light from a woman’s lamp fell on his forgiving eyes.
It was dancing girl, starred with jewels,
Wearing a pale blue mantle, drunk with the wine of her youth.
She lowered her lamp and saw young face austerely beautiful.
“Forgive me, young ascetic,” said the woman,
“Graciously come to my house. The dusty earth is not fit bed for you.”
The young ascetic answered, “Woman, go on your way;
When the time is ripe I will come to you.”
Suddenly the black night showed its teeth in a flash of lightening.
The storm growled from the corner of the sky, and
The woman trembled in fear of some unknown danger.
A year has not yet passed.
It was evening of a day in April, in spring season.
The branches of the way side trees were full of blossom.
Gay notes of a flute came floating in the warm spring air from a far.
The citizens had gone to the woods for the festival of flowers.
From the mid sky gazed the full moon on the shadows of the silent town.
The young ascetic was walking along the lonely street,
While overhead the love-sick koels uttered from the
mango branches their sleepless plaint.
Upagupta passed through the city gates, and
stood at the base of the rampart.
Was that a woman lying at his feet in the shadow of the mango grove?
Struck with black pestilence, her body spotted with sores of small-pox,
She had been hurriedly removed from the town
To avoid her poisonous contagion.
The ascetic sat by her side, took her head on his knees,
And moistened her lips with water, and
smeared her body with sandal balm.
“Who are you, merciful one?” asked the woman.
“The time, at last, has come to visit you, and
I am here,” replied the young ascetic.
She lowered her lamp and saw young face austerely beautiful.
“Forgive me, young ascetic,” said the woman,
“Graciously come to my house. The dusty earth is not fit bed for you.”
The young ascetic answered, “Woman, go on your way;
When the time is ripe I will come to you.”
Suddenly the black night showed its teeth in a flash of lightening.
The storm growled from the corner of the sky, and
The woman trembled in fear of some unknown danger.
A year has not yet passed.
It was evening of a day in April, in spring season.
The branches of the way side trees were full of blossom.
Gay notes of a flute came floating in the warm spring air from a far.
The citizens had gone to the woods for the festival of flowers.
From the mid sky gazed the full moon on the shadows of the silent town.
The young ascetic was walking along the lonely street,
While overhead the love-sick koels uttered from the
mango branches their sleepless plaint.
Upagupta passed through the city gates, and
stood at the base of the rampart.
Was that a woman lying at his feet in the shadow of the mango grove?
Struck with black pestilence, her body spotted with sores of small-pox,
She had been hurriedly removed from the town
To avoid her poisonous contagion.
The ascetic sat by her side, took her head on his knees,
And moistened her lips with water, and
smeared her body with sandal balm.
“Who are you, merciful one?” asked the woman.
“The time, at last, has come to visit you, and
I am here,” replied the young ascetic.
The Emptiness of Existence
"Our existence is based solely on the ever-fleeting present. Essentially,
therefore, it has to take the form of continual motion without there
ever being any possibility of our finding the rest after which we are
always striving. It is the same as a man running downhill, who falls if
he tries to stop, and it is only by his continuing to run on that he
keeps on his legs; it is like a pole balanced on one’s finger-tips, or
like a planet that would fall into its sun as soon as it stopped
hurrying onwards. Hence unrest is the type of existence"
- Schopenhauer
Source: ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/
- Schopenhauer
Source: ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/
The Emptiness of Existence.
This emptiness finds its expression in the whole form of existence, in the infiniteness of Time and Space as opposed to the finiteness of the individual in both; in the flitting present as the only manner of real existence; in the dependence and relativity of all things; in constantly Becoming without Being; in continually wishing without being satisfied; in an incessant thwarting of one’s efforts, which go to make up life, until victory is won. Time, and the transitoriness of all things, are merely the form under which the will to live, which as the thing-in-itself is imperishable, has revealed to Time the futility of its efforts. Time is that by which at every moment all things become as nothing in our hands, and thereby lose all their true value.
What has been exists no more; and exists just as little as that which has never been. But everything that exists has been in the next moment. Hence something belonging to the present, however unimportant it may be, is superior to something important belonging to the past; this is because the former is a reality and related to the latter as something is to nothing.
A man to his astonishment all at once becomes conscious of existing after having been in a state of non-existence for many thousands of years, when, presently again, he returns to a state of non-existence for an equally long time. This cannot possibly be true, says the heart; and even the crude mind, after giving the matter its consideration, must have some sort of presentiment of the ideality of time. This ideality of time, together with that of space, is the key to every true system of metaphysics, because it finds room for quite another order of things than is to be found in nature. This is why Kant is so great.
Of every event in our life it is only for a moment that we can say that it is; after that we must say for ever that it was. Every evening makes us poorer by a day. It would probably make us angry to see this short space of time slipping away, if we were not secretly conscious in the furthest depths of our being that the spring of eternity belongs to us, and that in it we are always able to have life renewed.
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